


Aeber's Piety

by 21stCenturyHero



Series: Aeber's Piety [2]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Depictions of Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Slow Burn, Therion puts his character development to good use, Worldbuilding Heavy, headcanon heavy, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21stCenturyHero/pseuds/21stCenturyHero
Summary: Pi.e.ty (noun) -In spiritual terminology, piety is a virtue that may include religious devotion, spirituality, or a mixture of both. A common element in most conceptions of piety is humility. From the Latin pietas, translated variously as "duty," "religiosity," "loyalty," or “devotion."Or;Gareth lives.
Relationships: Gareth & Aeber (Octopath Traveler), Gareth & Therion (Octopath Traveler), Therion & Aeber (Octopath Traveler), Therion (Octopath Traveler) & Everyone
Series: Aeber's Piety [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686391
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue - Fealty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work shall contain depictions of abuse, violence, and the consequences of it.
> 
> Please, be warned.

It was far, far too easy to get lost amidst the cold streets.

Winters in Northreach weren’t kind; the city was never built to be pleasant. Meant to be a bulwark against the Jötunn coming from north, it was left abandoned hundreds of years ago when the Ice Giants suddenly disappeared from Orsterra, being slain by the races of men and driven away back to their frozen continent, from where they also vanished. While peace prospered, the keep was swallowed by snow until only the lone chapel atop the mountain remained, inhabited by the things that crawl in the dark and the passing vagabonds, seeking the blessing and warmth of the flame that hid deep within, welcoming travelers with open arms.

That’s it, until Titus, the Hero came — he came, he saw, and he conquered, until one day he was no more, and when the drug trade in the free cities of the Woodlands dried up, they needed to pick up the scraps.

So like rats, they moved in.

The Ciannos were gone, their leaders slain one by one by his hand and their followers scattered to the eight corners of the continent thanks to the timely demise of Lady Helminia, and the dark underbelly of the continent found itself empty, hungering for those with power so they could step up and seize that gruesome throne: there were the Obsidians scattered across their strongholds in the continent, of course; those who lurk in the shadows of the strong and powerful, furthering their unknowable goals. And to the east, there were heretics, followers of the Dark Flame, rising up in the faint hope that the few of them could someday face the Church, to take back what was lost, what they could yet save. But none of them cared for the weak and meek, the poor and ostracized — none of them were children of Aeber, their ever faithful Prince. To watch over them, to shepherd them, to be there for the hungry children of the only god who cared for them, they came.

They came, they saw, they conquered.

And just like so, he found himself far, far from home, amidst the frozen wastes where the flame no longer burned bright, with its corridors extending serpentine below the earth, hiding the temple within and its endless bounty. There, festered the most rotten of rotten, the sole rulers of a kingdom of thieves, and the only fire in sight was his pale candlelight.

But soon there would be sunlight, even if amidst the dark clouds of winter.

Arriving at the last flight of stairs before Lorn’s Chapel, he shriveled beneath his furs and coat, being hit with the winds coming from above ground. His flame flickered and withered, leaving him in the dark, and suddenly he was alone with the crawlers and the noise of footsteps coming behind him.

“Are you going somewhere?”

He held his breath, stepping firmly on the ground instead of tiptoeing. “Lord Darius,” he whispered meekly, straightening his posture and turning on his heel, raising his gaze to meet a torch and eyes so green — so _beautiful_ — that he couldn’t help but be lost in them, and when he spoke again, it was loudly, albeit with only slightly more conviction. “S-Sir! I was…”

“About to head out,” his lord pointed out, gesturing to Gareth’s garbs. There was some irony in a thief clad in purple, the color belonging to the noblest of nobles, but it was one favored by their god — and even if it wasn’t, the long cape was a present from Darius, one that he so delicately tied around his shoulders, wearing a smile on his thin lips that turned his tongue into lead and made his hands shake at the side of his body

_“It fits you,” he whispered, and Gareth felt his heart race faster with something he refused to believe was fear._

Alas, that was not the time to think about that.

“It’s snowing,” he said as he tried to tame his weak knees. Looking away, he tried to avoid Darius’ piercing gaze and his eyes jumped around, following the broken stones that lined up the corridors of Lorn Chapel and searching for something, somewhere to— “Most of our men will be holed up in the chapel, which leaves no one in the streets. I thought…”

He thought he could help, do something.

That was his life’s purpose, after all.

His lord let out a deep sigh, the sort of thing that could mean anything, and Gareth tensed like a spring. His hands clenched into two fists, halfway an attempt to tame his wild instinct and halfway a preparation for what was to come, and a desperate part within himself — a foolish, desperate part that was contained deep within the chapel’s sanctum — told him to _reach for his daggers, run for his life,_ an impulse he had to fight to contain, staying as still as prey before its predator.

And then, Darius shook his head.

“Fine, then. Go.”

He blinked, snapping his head to look up and into the taller man’s eyes, searching for anything — any second thought or doubt, or even rage; but he saw nothing, no passion or emotion, only the dark circles surrounding his eyes and an endless, bottomless tiredness that was result of long nights spent drinking in front of their sole hearth fire.

“A-At once, my lord,” Gareth finally replied, bowing down his head and body in a sign of utter submission before his lord and majesty.

All things considered, the worst of it was over.

Not only the snowstorm, now subsided into a light snowfall, but with Darius too. He was always better than the other Ciannos; being only one year older than Gareth when he was assigned as his superior, he actually _cared_ for him, for his wounds, for his well-being. He wasn’t just another cog in the drug trade; for Darius, he was an invaluable someone.

So when he decided to kill them all, Gareth had no choice but to oblige.

He was always the best of them, after all.

Never mind the beatings, or when Darius barged him into his room drunk. He would follow him through the seven hells and the end of the world if needed, if only it would make Darius _smile._ He wasn’t afraid to bleed for him, to die for him, even if it was a thankless task, he tried to convince himself, alone amidst the snow, for it would be _worth it_.

“Hey, mister!”

…or not as alone as he thought.

The child was maybe fifteen or sixteen summers old, dressed not unlike him: draped in furs from head to toes and wearing a simple malva-colored mantle, the boy had dark skin like hardwood and lengthy white hair that unceremoniously cascaded behind his back, being blown by the wind. It was clear it was one of the kids of the town peddling his wares, for in his arms, he carried a basket of the most fantastic flowers Gareth had ever seen, making him wonder where exactly he got them amidst the winter.

“Hello there,” Gareth said cautiously, not used to being jumped, at least not by some wandering child; the snow might have muffled his footsteps, but— “What are you doing out in the snow?” he asked more softly — wouldn’t his younger brother be around that age? “Your parents must be worried.”

“Might I interest you in a flower, mister?” the boy asked, seemingly deaf to Gareth’s questions. “I can give you a flower of any color you would like.”

“I…” he looked at his sides, to the empty streets. Two houses away, the town officially ended and the graveyard began, and at the center of it, stood Lorn’s Chapel. The sun still shone red and gold amidst the clouds, and the snowfall slowly stopped, inviting the mourners to come out and pray — there were a lot of them, increasing everytime winter progressed and the thieves grew numb to the cold. Maybe the boy thought Gareth was one of them as he headed back towards the chapel, and albeit he knew his share of loss, their corpses were buried far away to the west, where they could overlook the sea.

In the end, he couldn’t say no to the child. He never could, even back then.

“…fine,” he whispered, pulling down his hood to reveal a soft smile to the boy; his pockets were heavy with leaves and he still had some time, so what bad was there in indulging for a moment? And the child laughed in response, tucking behind his ear the hair that fell over his left eye, before staring at Gareth with an impassive face.

“I can give you any color you desire,” the boy explained, serious all of sudden, and it was as if he and the child shared a secret. “Pure white, life-giving green, joyful yellow, melancholic blue. But only one color can truly save you, and only if you so desire.”

“Save me…?” Gareth shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t go to the church.”

The boy smiled back at him. “Me and mine rarely do,” he whispered to himself. “Let me depart with a promise, then; take this, and in your darkest hour, think of me,” the kid said, trusting him with a purple wildflower — the type that would bloom only in the arid south and whose name he didn’t know — and closing Gareth’s hand around its stem. “You’ll be safe, I swear.”

Somewhere, somehow, he felt as if he heard those words before, a long time ago; it was hard to believe the boy’s words, but somehow, he trusted him. “You’re one weird kid,” the man confessed with a sigh, holding the flower near his heart. “Here,” he said, shuffling his pockets in search of leaves. “Your payment.”

“There’s no need to!” the boy replied energetically, giggling again and pushing away his hand. “For I love you so much more than you can imagine.”

Gareth shook his head at the kid’s words, surprised. “Oh, my friend,” he whispered melancholically, ignoring the boy’s protests and sliding the money into his basket before patting his head. “You should not waste such words on strangers, especially not on people like me. Go, now. It’s late, and I’m sure your family is waiting for you.”

The bells of the church didn’t ring anymore, but if they did, they would ring for the gods that abandoned him. The darkness slowly fell to the world as the kid turned his back on him with a bitter smile, disappearing amidst the graves, and Gareth realized it was more than time to go.

He turned on his heel and followed the boy, all the way back to Lorn’s Chapel — the sanctuary of Aeber’s pieous, and even as the seasons turned from winter to spring as the days went by, the flower stayed in full bloom, abandoned in a corner of his cramped room.

_To the littlest Prince of Thieves, who hides between the cliffs;_

_spread Thy wings and fly, carrying our silence and sorrow,_

_our silence and sorrow,_

_for you watch over us_

_so we can have a tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new and improved version!
> 
> Like always, you can find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com/  
> And on twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


	2. Thieves’ Reckoning

There were no trail markers where they were going, only the shifting sand expanses and the infinite horizon in front of them.

It was scary, in a way — how easily they could get lost, drifting in the desert without any provisions or water. What was supposed to be a short trip was dragging on way too long, but Therion gritted his teeth and charged ahead, leading the three other men further into the unknown; the awfully vague note that the bartender slipped him weighed heavy in his chest pocket, and he couldn’t help but fidget with the Fool’s Band on his wrist whenever he thought the others weren’t watching ( _a nervous tick, amateur’s mistake_ — _stop doing that)._ No matter how he looked at this, this whole ordeal was doomed — it was a mistake bringing reinforcements, especially people he didn’t know well, this deep into the desert.

 _Especially_ the captain of the godsdamn town guard, but that was Olberic and Erhardt’s idea. He had no idea what these two were _thinking._

It was only by the end of the afternoon that the ground below their feet changed from sand to solid rock, and Therion could hear the noises coming from the market before they could actually see it — bosses screaming at their underlings to hurry up, cargo being unloaded, the awfully _loud_ and pretentious conversations of way too wealthy customers — so he raised his hand in warning, and his group came to a halt behind him.

“I’ll scout ahead. You three wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

Bale furrowed his brow and opened up his mouth to protest, and Therion suddenly decided that he liked him: unlike the two knights, the captain seemed to have at least some good sense in not blindly trusting him; he would never admit it outloud, but the sheer faith that people — people like Olberic, Erhardt and his partn- friends, his _friends_ — put in him felt alien, overwhelming. However before he could say anything, Olberic was shaking his head and putting a comforting hand on Bale’s shoulder. “Worry not, Therion is incredibly skilled in what he does. He’ll be fine.”

There was a tense heartbeat, the guard looking obviously conflicted. He glanced at Erhardt, but the knight simply gestured in approval.

“Very well,” the captain conceded at last, nodding towards the rock formations in front of them that separated the group from the market. “We shall retreat and wait for your report, then.”

“Stay safe,” Olberic added quickly, and Therion had to school his lips so they wouldn’t curve upwards in a smile.

“Who the hell do you think I am?” he answered instead, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms for good measure, making the bangle on his wrist rattle; the look on Olberic’s face was halfway between worried and amused.

It was _weird,_ Therion thought, but he supposed he could get used to that — working together with people, at least to a degree.

He turned on his heel as the men walked towards the dunes and hid in the shadows of the rock formation, climbing and rising toward a vantage point whenever possible. Soon enough, he reached the top of the stones, making himself as small as he could, and got a good look on the market below: it was bigger and more organized than he had first assumed, with crates and chests scattered all around the entrance of a cave. There was only one exit, which Therion supposed made sense — it was easier to keep track of everyone who came and went that way, but it wouldn’t save the market goers when Bale came with half of Wellspring’s town guard to swarm them. He almost felt sorry knowing that the attendees would have nowhere to go.

 _Almost._ The buyers seemed to be of noble birth, or at least high enough status to dress like nobility — the same sort of people who put that fucking _thing_ on his arm — which did wonders to kill any and all sympathy he had for them. They and the staff both hid their identities with masks in order to separate them from outsiders, and if Therion closed his eye and concentrated enough, he could basically _hear_ Primrose’s excitement.

_“A masquerade! Just like a play!”_

He almost regretted not bringing her along. She would have enjoyed the thrill of the heist, and he trusted no one more to be light on their feet and quick with their wit. He was positive they would be a nearly unbeatable duo together, if only he could convince her to switch careers.

— Alas, she wasn’t there.

The scenery from up there would also be to her liking, as it would be beautiful if it wasn’t all so disconcertingly _familiar_ — the twilight dyed the world in an eerie red, making it look like the entire desert was a sea ablaze, and the wind howled angry in his ears, shaking him to his core and threatening to throw him off balance; it took him back to the top of that cliff, when he was small and helpless and pleading for mercy while desperately clinging to a piece of green that stood in stark contrast with the savannah’s crimson, begging for him to _not do it— (he could change, he could do better, they would be the greatest tea leaves the world had ever seen—)_.

The wind changed, morphing into a twisted laugh, and Therion had to blink in order to uncloud his eye, covering his ears to not hear the draft playing tricks with his mind. That was _bullshit,_ he was fine, he wasn’t falling, those weren’t the Cliftlands. He touched the solid rock beneath him — sandstone, not basalt and limestone — and clenched his fist, trying to remember all of Cyrus useless trivia: he was surrounded by golden sand, not red clay; sand which was… silica? Which apparently made quartz. Therion couldn’t remember the entire lesson, but he was surrounded by the desert dunes instead of the savanna’s ravines and the shimmering silica wasn’t the iron-rich soil of the plateau, and that was all that mattered: he was fine.

_(He was fine.)_

He wasn’t falling.

And most importantly, there were people waiting for him.

Therion draped his legs over the edge of the rock formation and took the plunge, landing on his feet as gracefully as Linde.

He was _fine._

_(But why did he have such a bad feeling about this?)_

He found them atop a nearby dune and the three men listened to Therion’s report patiently, only interrupting him when they had one question or another to ask and needed him to repeat himself. When he finished speaking and their curiosity seemed to be satisfied, Erhardt crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave him a small, triumphant smile.

“Well, Captain Bale, it seems like we’ve found your mark.”

“Indeed we have, Lord Erhardt.” The man closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Therion could see the gears spinning inside his brain, most likely thinking about the logistics of bringing the town’s guard into the desert. Bale finally shook his head and addressed Therion; “You’ve been of great help, Master Therion. It’s highly unlikely that we would have found this place without you.”

“Uh?”

That— that caught him by surprise.

“I…—” he said with the exact eloquence of a five year old, and shame crept over him; he couldn’t even start to explain how much helping the town’s guard wasn’t his objective, how he was only in that to save his sorry ass, but— “Yeah, whatever.”

He supposed it wasn’t all that bad, helping people.

“I shall go back to Wellspring and bring reinforcements. But I guess that if, ah, anything happened in the black market while I was gone, I would have to overlook it, wouldn’t I?”

He flashed a smile at Therion and what the hell was _wrong_ with these people. He thought that the two of them had a _thing_ going, where Therion played the part of the miscreant and Bale had to endure him until all the dirty work was done and then, _maybe_ then, he wouldn’t throw Therion in the fucking gaol because Olberic convinced Erhardt to talk to him, or maybe Bale was just enough of a fool to let Therion go free because of some foolish sense of gratitude — but apparently the world had gone mad, easily trusting thieves like it was nothing, like they wouldn’t stab you in the back.

Therion would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him warm inside.

As the three of them bid farewell to the captain, he hoped that Bale at least had enough sunlight to make it back to Wellspring; Therion and the knights stared at his back until he became a small dot and disappeared in the desert, and when the first cold breeze of the evening blew, it made the shackle on his wrist chime like a small bell.

At his side, Therion’s fingers itched, aching for action. He could hear the black market growing louder beyond the rocks, with its fences calling people for auction and the buyers leaving the mouth of the cave in order to properly enter the place — all things considered, they were surprisingly _sloppy._

“What’s the plan, Therion?” Olberic asked, and the situation felt all too nostalgic, even if it had happened only half a year ago — Therion standing half hidden just outside the location of his next heist, with someone _pestering him_ for details and having the gall to _offer him help._

He groaned. _“You don’t need to know”_ was his answer back then.

Now he just rolled his eye and feigned annoyance. “Well, _I_ am going to sneak in, grab the dragonstone, and hopefully sneak out before Bale comes back with a half the town guard,” he said, which obviously wasn’t what Olberic wanted to hear, so he kept going, “— But if I’m not back in one hour or if you see anything strange… then I suppose you two could lend me a hand.”

Unexpectedly, Erhardt laughed and shook his head, turning to Olberic with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You found yourself quite a feisty protégé, huh, Olberic?”

“You don’t know half of it.” The knight let out a long-suffering sigh. “The things he does…”

“Hey, I’m literally right here—”

They men turned their faces to him, their eyes filled such endearment that he could feel the heat rise to his cheeks — blessed Aeber, there was simply no winning with these two, so he grumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “bye!” or “bastards!” and slipped away, sliding down the dune and returning to the cover of the shadows with practiced ease.

Behind him, he could hear the knights laugh.

Madmen, all of them.

Therion realized about five seconds in that he owed both Ophilia and Primrose an apology.

He complained about their attempts to take him shopping several times in the past, but as he waltzed between the nobles and stragglers at the mouth of the cave, he realized he wouldn’t have got past them if he wasn’t wearing the silks and fancily embroidered cashmere that Primrose picked for him. While he was dressed more plainly than most of the patrons of the market, he couldn’t deny that there was a certain… allure _(nice, he looked **nice** )_ to his clothes, which he knew was intentional: it was easily enough walk up to a noble lady, put one of his demure little smiles, bat his pretty eyelashes and watch her blush as he approached with kind words and pleasant conversation before leaving with a shy wave of hand and one adorned porcelain mask hidden beneath his mantle.

He grinned to himself as he put it on his face without ever stopping to look back. Ah, Primrose: may Aeber bless her heart and grant House Azelhart mercy and protection from all thieves — not that there was much of a House Azelhart left to pillage, but it was the thought that counted.

“Welcome, sir,” one of the guards stationed at the entrance said with a smile, or at least Therion thought they were smiling beneath their mask — they sounded genuine enough, even if that was standard protocol. “I hope you’ll find today’s selection to your liking.”

His sneer grew larger at the formality: ‘master’ this, ‘sir’ that, they really wanted to spoil him. Therion put on the most polite facade he could manage and replied with a sickeningly sweet voice:

“Hah, as do I.”

“Enjoy the market,” the guard who addressed him said as they nodded and stepped away, and once again, he entered through the front door. It was too easy and not too much fun, but damn if it wasn’t _satisfying;_ he could get used to that.

He stepped into the cave and left the light behind.

Therion had heard about the black market before, of course, but it was his first time actually in it, and couldn't help comparing it to Grandport's Merchant Fair in sheer magnitude: the interior of the cavern was larger than he had imagined and lit up with the pleasant warm orange of several torches and candles, standing in stark contrast to the desert that rapidly grew cold and dark outside. Wellspring was placed right in the middle of the two jewels of the Sunlands, and he could very well be staring at the third: he had seen obscene displays of wealth in his time, but there was enough gold and silver scattered across the cave’s floor to rival the glittering grains of sand outdoors, with all sorts of gemstones, expensive fabrics, rare tomes and overpriced extravagant novelties on display; the sheer _shine_ of it was almost enough to blind him.

The Fool’s Bangle weighed on his arm, but Therion couldn’t help but be excited. That was the sort of greed and excess that he absolutely revelled in: the kind of thing that stirred some hidden lust of his, a desire to reach for its ugly underbelly and expose all of its darkest secrets to the world in one fell swoop, like a butcher would do to an animal’s guts.

They said that thieves who stole from thieves were granted one hundred years of mercy, after all.

He straightened his posture and walked in with his chin held high, like Primrose and Cyrus had trained him to in their endless attempts at teaching him some sort of manners — his usual tactic of brooding in the corner of a tavern wouldn’t work there. He didn’t need to school his expression since the mask completely covered his face, but he held himself with pride and grace and spoke with all the gentle pretentiousness he could muster.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?”

He talked to fences from all eight corners of Orsterra, inquiring about their wages and the dragonstone alike. He looked at their treasures with a discerning eye, and Therion just knew that Tressa would be foaming from the mouth if she ever saw that bazaar; he lost the count of how many priceless family heirlooms were offered to him, or how many items of historical importance were for sale that would make Cyrus seethe with rage if he ever saw them being treated like some trinket that the rich could use to flaunt their wealth; H’aanit would be saddened by all the animal skins made into fur coats, some coming even from the far off north, while Alfyn would stare at some exotic plant brought from the southern continents and lament its price, for it could be used to save lives otherwise. When Therion saw a signet ring of House Azelhart, he started seriously considering bringing back some souvenirs.

And so what if his pockets were heavier after a couple laps across the market? What could they do, arrest him?

…gut him and leave him to die was far more likely, but _details._

He heard several rumors about the dragonstones, albeit no one dared to say their name; about how they used to be a national treasure of Hornburg before being lost to history, or that they were created by a powerful sorcerer who fell in love with a god a long time ago. Most of it was likely hogwash, but it told Therion everything he needed to know: the stone was there, and it was the market’s main event.

However, waiting for its auction to start was… painfully dull.

While he was used to waiting for the right moment to strike, something mildly interesting was always happening in the local alehouses, and he understood why Primrose would say time and time again that she had no interest in petty noble squabbles — it was _boring._ Call Therion unsophisticated, but he preferred your garden-variety peasant drama: stories about how the local apothecary had the moon eyes for the big city librarian, or how the town’s old man would refuse to let go of his pipe; they were far simpler, and for the most part, people’s lives weren’t on the line.

— But that treasure wasn’t going to steal itself, was it?

“One moment if you will, my good sirs!” one of the marketeers said, calling attention to his wares with pomp and flourish in his voice. “I feel like gentlemen such as yourselves could truly appreciate the beauty of this gem. It hails from the east, alongside a legend…”

_(Jackpot.)_

Therion gave his apologies to the fence he was talking to with a polite enough tone and she glared daggers at his back, muttering under her breath with annoyance as he walked away. The second she stopped looking, he carefully slipped into the dark corners of the cave, letting go of the fake aura of smug pride in order to conceal his presence completely. As Therion approached, the auctioneer kept speaking, completely unaware of the eyes that hid in shadows.

“They say this stone was once the emerald eye of a fierce dragon that soared through the skies, but was slain by King Beowulf I of Hornburg…”

He smiled to himself. The stone in the hands of the marketeer was absolutely flawless and a similar color as Therion’s single eye; he had become familiar with that same glint in another hue as he fled Noblecort, and now it haunted his nightmares.

Well, there it was, time to nab i—

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the purple fluttering of a cape and understood with horror what was going on a fraction of a second before it happened. He grabbed the handle of his dagger and started to move in the slim chance that he might reach the auctioneer in time, but he was too slow — a blade was unsheathed and sheathed again in quick succession, and there was a short moment of silence before anyone fully understood that they were seeing blood.

— and then, a scream.

Therion ripped the mask from his face and broke away from the market crowd in pursuit.

Why was nothing in his life ever _easy._

There was another exit, of fucking course there was another exit — and a pretty _abandoned_ one at that, too. He could feel things crawling in the darkness — things he wasn’t particularly _fond_ of — and winced as he accidentally crushed a bug under his heel; oh, how he _despised_ those things.

Even as he ran as fast as he could, the thief in the purple cape was nowhere to be found and it was hard to fight the paranoia settling in. Therion could try to dismiss it as just coincidence, but it didn’t _fit._ It was too accurate, too _calculated_ for whoever that was to just randomly steal the dragonstone. So similarly to him, that person had a goal in mind — a _very_ specific goal in mind.

The Ravuses wouldn’t be happy with that.

In a matter of seconds he was beyond the ring of light that came from inside the market, getting lost in the winding dark tunnels of the cave. Therion hissed under his breath and a small flame no bigger than a candle’s danced on the tips of his fingertips, lingering for a second before jumping from his palm and peacefully floating by his side, illuminating the cavern with its weak glow.

He could barely see ahead, but he gritted his teeth and hurried up, being careful as to step softly. If he stood still and paid attention, he could hear something other than the noises of the crawlers bouncing off the walls and reaching his ears — something that sounded suspiciously like human voices. So even if it was tempting, he kept his flame small and demure, showing him no more than his immediate surroundings.

At least it was enough to ward off the bugs, who would flee upon seeing the light.

 _Blessings of Aelfric, bringer of the flame,_ he could hear Ophilia saying in prayer. That brought a small comfort to him, even if it was short lived; up ahead, he could hear the voices growing louder and more clear and soon enough, he saw a flickering light.

“We should be safe here, ain’t nobody stupid enough to come this far.”

He stayed hidden within the shadows while he approached, hand on his dagger’s pommel. Three men stood where the tunnels forked, all of them wearing the same olive color and the tallest of the trio holding a torch above his head, and Therion tried to remember if the dragonstone’s thief was also wearing green — he had never seen a group wearing similar colors, the closest being Cianno’s dark blue.

“Now to go back to the bo—”

_(It’s showtime.)_

“What’s the hurry?” Therion asked, stepping into the light. That wasn’t his way of doing things, but there was only one path forward — so he put on a mask of confidence and spoke with a calm voice, quirking his lips in a mocking grin. “You have the dragonstone, don’t you? I need it, so hand it over.” He thought for a second, and then added in his fakely sweet voice: “Pretty please?”

He could bullshit his way through this mess. Maybe. The Ravuses didn’t need to know.

He needed to not get stabbed first, though.

The three men stared perplexed for a moment beforing laughing, and his smile grew more forceful as they looked down on him _(oh, how he hated being that **short** )._ The middle one shook his head, and Therion could see the other two reaching for their weapons; “Yer a fool for comin’ here alone, aren’t ya?”

— although now that seemed highly unlikely to happen.

By the time any of them reached for their blades, Therion already had his hands on his sword and dagger. The men seemed dull-witted enough; maybe if he managed to get the upper hand in a fight, they would run away with their tails between their legs and things wouldn’t get too ugly. He was a thief first and a combatant second, but even he could—

“The real fool is the one who leaves a trail back to his hideout,” a voice said, loud and low, carrying all the weight of authority and threat.

It froze the blood in his veins.

Therion whipped his head around _(stupid, your enemy is right in front of you)_ and turned to the newcomer who stood just around the edge of the torchlight. It was weird somehow, like seeing a ghost — except that the ghost had grown from the lanky teen he used to be and reached the adulthood that should otherwise be denied to shadows. He was taller and more muscular now, allowing his orange hair to grow past his shoulders, but the man still wore it slicked back like he did in his youth, and when he stepped closer to the group, Therion could see his eyes shimmering with malice as they reflected the fire.

The small flame that accompanied the thief died, and he took a step back.

“Darius.”

Darius turned his head to Therion and his face lit up with recognition. That was bad. Therion needed to, he should — fuck, he didn’t know. Every single fiber of his being screamed for him to _run,_ but his heartbeat was deafening; his mouth was dry, his tongue had turned to lead alongside his legs, and he could feel his hands shaking. This time, he was back to the cliff for real, and it was hard to fight the impulse to do the same thing he did back then: fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Darius at least had the gall to look surprised when he spoke. “Wait… I know you.”

He turned his face away, only to find himself staring at two beautiful blue eyes.

Hidden in the shadows outside the light and following close behind Darius was the hooded thief; his entire face was obscured except for piercing eyes that reflected the torchlight, and he looked at Therion with such unexpected disdain and coldness that it made him hesitate for a second.

He decided really quickly that he hated it.

Darius laughed loudly, and Therion questioned why he ever liked that laugh in the past; it was haughty and mocking and it made him want to run and hide, but his legs wouldn’t fucking work— “Well, if it isn’t Therion!”

He needed to find his voice, to say something, anything — his sharp tongue was the only thing that Darius never took from him before, and he wasn’t taking it now. It had been six years, for heaven’s sake, he should be over it by now — but when he finally opened up his mouth to speak, his voice came out low, scared and pathetic, trying desperately to feign confidence; “I never thought I’d see you again, least of all here.”

That was a lie, of course. He had fully expected to see Darius in hell.

“Likewise,” Darius said with a nod, his lips curled in a sneer. “I heard rumors of another tea leaf after the dragonstones, but I never thought it’d be you. I’m amazed you’re still kickin’!”

“I see you found yourself some new partners in crime,” Therion pointed out, desperate to change the subject, crossing his arms in front of his chest and gesturing in the hooded thief’s direction with his head; while the men deflated in the presence of Darius, the person in the purple cape still kept some semblance of dignity, looking as impassive as ice while their eyes were like daggers against Therion’s skin.

It brought back memories he didn’t want to remember, really — he had enough of blue eyed brats staring at him as if he was nothing.

Darius shook his head, and Therion stopped staring at the hooded thief, looking somewhere else to direct his attention.

“I wouldn’t call them ‘partners’, they work for me,” the man explained and Therion narrowed his eye; he could see it now, a faint glint of emerald reflecting the torchlight, gleaming from its place in Darius’ coinpurse. “So, how has been life without me? It must be exciting, if that Fool’s Bangle is any indication!”

There was a laugh and Therion flinched back, surprised and hurrying to hide his arms beneath his mantle _(careless, stupid, amateur, what would Darius say if—)._ His reaction only made Darius cackle louder, stepping into his personal space and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Could that be why you’re after the dragonstones?” the man asked, amusement obvious in his voice.

Darius had always been taller than Therion, but the years only accentuated the difference between them to the point that Darius now towered over him by an entire foot. Therion never liked how it made him feel _small,_ like he was a child again, helpless and hopeless, dependent on Darius to clean up his messes. It was hard not to bend under the weight of the man’s hand like all of his other lackeys and simply accept that he was tiny and pathetic — he tried to resist, straighten his posture and look at Darius with as much poison as he could gather in a glare, but—

He couldn’t find the strength or courage to reply.

“You’ve gotten sloppy, mate,” Darius said, and there it was: the disapproval and the disappointment that always came up when they talked about him. It hit Therion like a sucker punch, so similar to all the ones that Darius had thrown at him before. “Stealing used to be your only talent. It’s the reason I kept you around for so long, you know.”

He took one more step forward and everything came back to Therion at once _—_ the good, the bad and the ugly, standing atop of that cliff; _he could change, he could do better—_

“Enough, Darius!” he snarled, shoving the man’s hand away and stepping back as fast as he could. That was _bullshit,_ he wasn’t Darius’ anymore: Olberic and Erhardt were waiting for him in the desert outside, and Alfyn promised him a drink when he returned to Wellspring. He would get that godsdamned gemstone then and there, and no fucking _ghost_ would stop him. Therion scowled, baring his teeth and reaching for his weapons.

Darius looked baffled. _Good._

It took a second for the man to recover from the shock and shake his head. “I guess you’re right, there’s really no point in reminiscing,” he sighed. “He’s all yours, boys,” the man said, signaling for his underlings. Therion’s heart stopped as the thieves stepped in front of him; Darius turned his back to leave, touching the back of the hooded thief and addressing them instead. “We got what we came for, Gareth; it’s time we make our way out.”

The thief bowed his head in deference. “Yes, sir. Follow me.”

He opened his mouth to say… he wasn’t sure what. He took a step; he needed to give chase, get the dragonstone and get out of there, but the three men in green closed in, knives, swords and axe in hand, and the one with the dagger stepped towards him. Therion couldn’t move fast enough to dodge and the blade grazed his cheek as he tried to get out of the way; he hissed as the blood run down his face _(fuck, that stings),_ shifting his attention to the brigands.

Well, so much for not getting his hands dirty.

 _“Get out of my way!”_ he screamed, and called forth the fire inside him, creating a ring of flame around himself. Unlike his previous feeble candlelight, the inferno now roared with anger, burning as bright and all-consuming as the Cliftland wildfires with its tendrils extending and reaching for Darius’ minions. He unsheathed his knife and leaped through the flames (they didn’t bother him, not anymore, not after—), driving the blade into the shoulder of the thief closest to him. There was a yelp of pain as his target stumbled back, but Therion wasted no time in whirling on his heel while pulling the weapon back and parrying an axe blow aimed at his head.

Once again he summoned the power within and blasted a fireball at his assailant’s chest point blank, and the small explosion of flames pushed the thieves back. He landed gracefully on his feet, while his opponent… not so much. The man in green groaned loudly as he fell on his back and Therion unceremoniously stepped on his chest a second after, sword in hand and eyes focused on the last remaining thief, the tall one with the sword and torch. The light fell from his hands, sizzled and died as he feebly deflected Therion’s stab, but fencing lessons with Olberic had paid off; with a turn of his wrist, he twisted their locked blades and the ruffian’s weapon fell to the ground with a deafening clatter. Therion wasted no time closing the distance between them and decking him square in the jaw.

The man stumbled back, trying to reach for the dagger in his belt, but in the next second Therion had his sword pointed at his throat. It was almost entirely dark again, the only light source being the flames that were completely under his control, filling the small fork in the tunnels with a threatening twilight-like aura.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop your weapon right this instant,” he growled.

The dagger landed right at the sword’s side.

The cave tunnels opened onto a large gallery with a narrow passage in the middle surrounded by an abyss on both sides, and moonlight slipped in through the cracks and openings in the ceiling alongside sand that glittered silver. It was hard to keep his hands from shaking and school his weak legs to stay steady as he delved further into the cavern, but he pressed on silently even if the corners of his vision were starting to blur.

Darius was easy enough to track by just following the light of his lantern and the sound of his voice; it ended up oddly augmented by the stone walls, with whispers becoming haunting echoes, but as long as Therion stayed close enough to see the red glow of the fire, he knew that he would be fine; the most difficult part was not letting his thoughts go astray.

 _(Amateur’s mistake,_ he thought with a small bitter smile on his lips.)

The fear of exactly this happening always existed in the back of his mind, he supposed. Orsterra was a surprisingly small place, so he always knew that one day he could end up running into Darius again; sometimes he would stare at the creeks at the bottom of the ravines and think about heading south, following the stream in the Riverlands until he reached the sea and boarding a ship to the Mooncoast and beyond, leaving the continent and the memories of pain, hurt and betrayal forever behind — but the thought of ever going back to his homeland, to where he met _him,_ was nearly unbearable, so Therion stayed behind and haunted the place where both his heart and his body were broken at the age of sixteen like a ghost that refused to die.

When he was younger, dumber and softer, he even dreamed about their possible reunion: in his naivete, he thought that maybe Darius would apologize, tell him that everything was a mistake and ask if they could start again, if he could do _better,_ but as the years went by, the scars of that day started to slowly fade away alongside any hope of a happy reconciliation — now there they were, six years later and once again in the same spot, dancing to the song whose steps they knew so well.

At least this time the gloves were off.

There was a faint glow further in, silvery and unchanging — the mouth of the cave, most likely. Therion sped up, walking as fast as he could without making noise. The hooded thief raised his voice, speaking to Darius: “We’re almost out, sir.”

“Good, lead the way.”

 _Ugh. ‘Yes, sir!’, ‘Understood, sir!’_ Therion rolled his eyes as he ducked behind cover. _Stop spoiling him, asshole; Darius’ ego is bloated as is._

He finally understood why this entrance wasn’t used by the black market: the opening was considerably smaller, being sealed off by a heavy iron gate partially hidden under rock debris which two of Darius’ underlings worked to clear off; but the second reason soon became clear to Therion; by mentally retracing his steps, he realized that they had wandered westward — they were in the heart of lizardmen territory.

Well, Olberic wouldn’t be happy in knowing that, would he…?

“So that man…” Gareth continued, tentatively. “Therion, was it—”

Darius hummed for a second before answering; “You’re curious about our history, I take it.” There was a strange calm in his voice, and Therion was painfully aware of where that was going. The man stood closer to Gareth, looking down on him. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Well, I—”

“Choose carefully, Gareth. The wrong answer will cost your life.”

There was a short and tense second of silence, and for what was probably the first time in his life, Therion felt pity; Gareth’s eyes grew wide and fell to ground as he seemed to shrink, like Therion did so many times before in his youth. He hated how _familiar_ it all was: just how many times had he been on the receiving end of that threat? Gareth wasn’t special in that regard, but seeing how he looked at Darius, he probably thought that he was.

“I… I’m sorry, sir. It wasn’t my place to pry.”

Darius didn’t answer — He never did: he would simply stay in haunting silence and leave you to obsess over what exactly went wrong, without ever truly reaching a conclusive answer.

Maybe it was the time to step in; Therion’s one hour time limit was over already and he absolutely dreaded the thought of somehow involving Olberic in his messes — plus, Therion wanted to put an end to that farce at last; if not for himself, for the poor soul that took his place.

_How did you become involved with this mess, Gareth?_

He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists several times, feeling the obnoxious weight of the chain in his arm. That was why he was there, right? He was supposed to sneak in, grab the dragonstone and sneak out before Bale came back with the guard. That was what he promised Olberic.

Meeting up with Darius was an unfortunate accident.

…he was going to kill the Ravuses if it wasn’t.

The fire below his skin burned red, hot and angry. It was comforting, to a degree, to think he could let it take over and replace the dread and the fear that ran through his veins. He got up and for a second he thought he would fall, nausea rising on the back of his throat, but he took a triumphant first step and burst into a sprint.

“Stop right there, Darius!” he roared, stepping towards the entrance, and suddenly four pairs of eyes were on him. Maybe this was a bad idea _(an **awful** idea, in fact),_ but he didn’t see any other options; Gareth’s hands flew to the grip of his blades at the sight of him and Therion instinctively mirrored the hooded thief, but Darius shook his head and stepped forward, holding the pommel of his own sword.

“My, you just refuse to die, don’t you?”

Therion stopped in his tracks, not letting go of his weapons. His eye darted around, trying to evaluate his opponents; he’d never won a fight with Darius as a child, but maybe now— no, he was far too outnumbered. He put no faith whatsoever in the two underlings, but Gareth could prove to be a challenge if what he saw in the market was anything to go by.

He cursed himself; he would need to stall for time.

Better get the important stuff out of the way first, then; “Tell me,” Therion demanded, trying to keep his voice even: his hold on the handle of his blade was the only thing stopping his hands from shaking. “Why are _you_ after the dragonstone?”

A sneer. “Why does a tea leaf steal anything, Therion? I don’t need a _reason_ to want what I do.”

His lips twisted into a grimace, and Therion wanted to both scream and laugh in relief at the same time; their meeting was a _fucking coincidence._ Even with his delusions of grandeur, Darius ultimately was a street rat, just like Therion — the chances that he sought the stones like Orlick had done were slim at best. “…I should’ve known.”

It was good news for the Ravuses, at least — too bad that meant he’d lost the perfect excuse to punch Heathcote in the face.

All around him, he could hear echoes. He could maybe take the small fry out with ease if they were as useless as the thieves he fought in the tunnel, the question was how to deal with—

“But what’s with those pitiful minces?”

That snapped Therion out of his thoughts. “…Huh?!”

Darius’ smile grew larger, taking advantage of his momentary relapse. He shook his head and the look on his face was so predatory that it made Therion lose what little control he still had over his body; when Darius stepped forward, he could hear the chain on his arm rattling as his hands trembled. “So cold and guarded… distrustful and wary…” Darius lowered his voice to a whisper. “Does my betrayal still haunt you?”

He opened up his mouth to reply, but his gaze fell to the ground. The man in front of him chuckled.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Darius told him, and Therion hated how _right_ he was. “For a top-notch tea leaf, you’re still pathetically sentimental.”

Therion clenched his fist, making the obnoxious sound of the bangle stop — but the echoes continued, growing louder and eerier. “Enough talk, Darius!” He lashed out at last, drawing his dagger from its sheath. The man in front of him seemed unfazed, but behind him Gareth approached with his knives in hand.

Darius clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I recall you having wittier comebacks, mate.”

Therion charged only to cross blades with Gareth halfway; the noise of iron meeting iron bounced off the walls, becoming more deafening every second, and the persistent echoes became more frenetic. With a groan, the white haired thief stepped back, unlocking their daggers, and Darius’ men quickly surrounded him by the flanks.

Well, _shit._

“Leave this man to me, sir,” Gareth said, pointing his weapon directly at Therion’s heart. “I’ll make quick work of him.”

( _For the last time, please shut up.)_

Darius nodded and his green cape fluttered as he turned his back, his men following him and sparing worried glances at Gareth. Therion’s pulse sped up— the emerald dragonstone. He needed to— “Wait—!”

“It’s in your hands, Gareth.”

“Yes, sir!”

Gareth lunged forward and Therion barely had time to react, stopping the thief’s knife from gutting him then and there by pushing it away with the flat part of his dagger; there was an annoyed _tsk_ and the man swung his second blade in a wide arc, grazing Therion’s face as he stumbled out of the way. He opened his free hand and conjured fire, shaping it like a whip and lashing it against his assailant, only for Gareth to his flames gracefully and soon was toe to toe with him again, stabbing and cutting and barely allowing for breathing room.

Alright, that was manageable. He had fought a godsdamned construct and lived, for heavens’ sake. He would survive _this._

— Except that constructs didn’t bleed, didn’t think, didn’t dream, didn’t _die._

For the first time since he was chained, he was truly fighting for his life.

Therion stepped forward, drawing an arc from above, and locked his blades with the hooded thief; he tried to overpower him somehow, push him away, but Gareth crossed both his knives to stop his dagger and refused to wield, forcing both of them further into the narrow passage. “Move!” Therion ordered, watching powerlessly as the last glimpse of Darius’ cape disappeared through the gate. “My fight is with Darius, not you!”

“I can’t do that, my friend,” Gareth replied so coldly that it sent a chill down his spine. “You have no place near Lord Darius anymore; I’m his right hand now.”

“I don’t want to do this,” he said pleadingly. Therion knew these eyes; eyes that were cold and jaded, yes — but also so loving, so adoring, so _servile_ that they seemed to belong more to a mutt than to a person.

Those were the same eyes that he had, back then — eyes belonging to someone with something worth living and dying for.

_Don’t you ever get tired of using people, Darius?_

There was an explosion of fire, scorching blue and green, and Therion screamed in both pain and surprise. Of course, of _fucking course_ he was fighting a hells-sent _mage._ He tried to call out to the flames surrounding him, make them bend to his will, but Gareth’s grip on his magic was unrelenting; it took a groan of effort for the inferno to subside, and Therion knew that the burns in his skin would leave a mark.

“That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?” he asked Gareth, huffing and drawing out his sword as fast as he could; he needed to put some distance between them, _quickly._ With the longer blade, he could easily parry a couple of the hooded thief’s assaults and force him back until they were closer to the cave’s entrance. It annoyingly reminded him of a dance — he and Gareth were too _even,_ both in skill and equipment, height and build. There was no way for one to simply overpower the other in a quick manner and be done with it, so they were locked in an unfortunate standstill and a contest of endurance. That was the bad part about fighting a fellow ruffian; against the stuck up knight types like Olberic, Therion could always cheat his way to the top due their blind nobleness, but to the riffraff like him and Gareth, honor was a word and nothing more. If Therion tried to one up Gareth, he would just expose himself.

So paradoxically enough, they forced each other to play fair.

— but not _too_ fair.

“Therion!” A voice called from further into the gallery, and there was a devilish edge to Therion’s tired smile while he deflected a stab aimed at his stomach; Gareth’s eyes grew wide before narrowing again, angered and afraid. The cavalry had arrived.

“You…—!”

“Took you two long enough!” he complained, shouting over his shoulder. Gareth didn’t take it too kindly; a fireball materialized in front of him, hurling towards Therion’s chest, and he responded in kind, with the flames meeting halfway and exploding like purple fireworks.

He spun with his blade, taking the offensive and finally landing a blow. Not a second passed before Gareth let out a barely contained scream of rage and pain and soon fire rained upon him again, bringing back memories of his childhood as it scorched him.

_— fire, as beautiful and scarlet as Darius’ ginger hair._

(But then why did the burns in his arms hurt so much?

_“Let me see,” Darius ordered and Therion gingerly extended his burned arms, hissing when the redheaded boy touched them and coiling when he spat. “It’s not that bad,” he said, letting Therion retreat into his corner. “Quit whining.”_

_“Let me see yours,” he offered, hoping the little healing magic he knew could salve his wounds._

_“It’s alright; they aren’t as bad.”_

Therion screamed in annoyance.

He was tired of pretending, tired of running away.

Green and red flames danced all around them, scorching their clothes and their skins, and Therion could smell sweat and blood tainting the air, suddenly feeling dread on the pit of his stomach; he needed to wrap this up quickly. The thief allowed himself to focus solely on Gareth, blocking out all the rest, and he strengthened the grip on his sword, stepping forward and stabbing the air where Gareth stood just one second prior, taking the lead of their dance; now Therion guided the other thief around, forcing him to dodge and parry in a desperate attempt to keep his opponent at bay. The both of them grew tired, bleeding from a million cuts, their clothes tattered and burned by the other’s magic; soon enough one of them would make a mistake they couldn’t recover from.

They tethered in the edge of the cliffs surrounding them and Therion felt faint, wavering. “Gareth—” he begged again, and a dagger cut the air where his throat was not a second prior. “Please—” he tried to argue, but another blade almost blinded him for good. “Surrender—” he asked, but almost lost balance trying to dodge two blows at the same time. “Is this worth _dying_ for?!”

Was it selfish, not wanting blood in his hands?

Was it selfish, not wanting to hurt others?

Answer, oh Prince — was it _selfish?_

“Shut up!” Gareth screamed instead, and suddenly he was surrounded, like a rabbit ambushed by dogs. His hood fell sometime during the fight, showing a face that looked far too much like Cordelia’s for comfort — it wasn’t just the blue eyes, but also the same chin-lenght hair and regal aura, and it sent Therion stumbling back. He wanted to hate him, to curse him, for in that instant, he saw a mirage of all he hated the most; himself, Cordelia, Heathcote, but _—_

_Why couldn’t he?_

_Why all he felt was empathy?_

Is it godly, for my children to kill each other?

Is it godly, for a brother to betray one another?

Tell me, son of man — is it _godly?_

“Gareth—” Therion attempted to call out one last time; unlike him, Olberic and Erhardt didn’t really have qualms with killing. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t let them do it; not when Gareth stared at him with those big blue eyes as wide as the moon, so frightened, so similar to _his_ when it all happened, and he couldn’t help but extend his hand in friendship.

“Come with us,” he pleaded, and for his surprise Gareth took his hand, staring directly at Therion with more sadness than he had ever seen in his life.

Darius had always told him that he was privileged to be blessed with such skill that it seemed like a gift from the gods. As a child, he had shrugged it off, but now he wondered if what he did wasn’t in fact magic: he could hear the whisperings in his mind give him a soft, approving smile, and time seemed to slow down as his body grew lighter, like they were submerged in water. He felt himself being pulled by Gareth, he enveloped in his arms like a lover’s embrace, and he knew what would happen next.

“You’re too late, my friend.”

Then, they fell.

_Aeber, Prince of Thieves,_

_Forgive them, for they know not what they do._

_So grant us mercy,_

_and let us start the reckoning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, you can find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com/  
> And on twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


	3. Aeber's Mercy

_Take this flower, and in your darkest hour, think of me; you’ll be safe — this, I swear._

— a memory of his childhood:

The rain tapped against the ceiling in a consistent melody while his younger brother sat on his lap, pressing his face on the window glass as the two of them watched the flickering will-o’-wisps dance outside and Gareth braided his hair, tucking the loose black strands behind the young boy’s ear and humming something that sounded awfully like their mother’s lullabies.

“First the world was created,” Gareth told his brother with all the authority that being a second son entailed, resulting in a mix of both pride and uncertainty in his voice. “But only the oceans and the land. Then the Goddess thought that the earth was still empty, so she created the spirits to populate it: wind and thunder clashed to create the skies, while ice sculpted the mountains both in the south and in the north. Light and darkness waged war to cover the land, and fire…”

He opened the window latch and pushed it open, inviting the wisps in. They murmured in agreement like a gentle stream, answering to his summons and creating a small reddish flame that flickered meekly on the tip of his fingers, unbothered by the raindrops. He allowed himself to smile as his brother’s eyes reflected the fire, shimmering in delight.

“Fire went anywhere there was a spark, giving life to the forest trees and to the heart of the animals, and when humans were created, the gods gifted mankind with flame so we could change the world.”

His brother laughed, clapping his little hands, but Gareth looked out the window at the forest outside with a frown on his face — the night was eerily silent.

————— _Wake up._

Gareth quietly tiptoed through the corridor, avoiding the places where habit had taught him that the floor creaked. His heartbeat drummed in his ears as he pushed open the door, expecting the light that came from the old lantern on the porch to blind him, but it never came — there was only the weak moonlight, filtered through the rain clouds. He blinked his eyes, dumfolded, opening his mouth to call for his parents, but his voice died on his throat; he could smell the iron and the copper, and in the darkness, a large indistinct shape blinked its poisonous green eyes at him.

Father…? Mother…——?

_Don’t think about that. Wake up._

He stared at the sky to watch as the vultures slowly circled over the forest, flying across the endless blue expanse in search of their next spoils. At his side, his older brother scowled without slowing down, lips twisting in a disapproving grimace. “Loathsome creatures,” he said, shaking his head. “A thing of Aeber, they are.”

The words made Gareth look down and turn to him, head tilted slightly up and to the side in confusion while his short legs struggled to keep up. “Is Aeber bad?” he asked with all the innocence of a child, with his voice low and shy.

“He’s a god of the rabble,” the taller boy explained with clear annoyance, waving a hand dismissively. “Nothing good can come from **that**.”

“Rabble?”

“Thieves, Gareth.”

“Are…” he started to ask before changing his mind, letting his eyes fall to the ground. His brother made an annoyed noise with his throat and once again sped up his pace, leaving Gareth to lag behind.

He didn’t have the heart to tell him that he found the vultures unbelievably beautiful.

_You need to wake up, Gareth._

Ah, it stung. It stung and he was scared.

He hid his face, afraid that he would be slapped again, and there were tears forming in his eyes. He wanted to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but the words wouldn't come out: all he could do was make himself smaller, smaller and whimper when his brother reached for his collar, pulling him up and forcing him to endure eye contact.

It was agonizing and all that Gareth could think about was **fleeing** , but he was trapped there, being held in place by someone who was both taller and stronger than him. His older brother stared down on him with eyes filled with such poison that it made all his thrashing suddenly stop in favor of staying still, praying that this would end soon.

He raised his hand again and Gareth flinched at sight, but the punch never came. Instead his brother simply tsked in disapproval, whispering before allowing him to fall to the ground again.

“Useless child.”

Gareth wondered if that was the first time he knew hatred.

_Wake up._

The golden stone shimmered in his hands, looking more beautiful than anything he had ever seen and burning so brightly, so strongly that it could rival the sun. From it, he could feel something — a strong obsession, an undying loyalty, or perhaps it was love? — that compelled him to possess it and give himself entirely to it, as if it was alive. Both the fear and the mania made him burst into a sprint, with his weak legs shaking as he turned a corner and heard the man he just robbed scream in the alleyway behind him.

Gareth let out a shaky breath while a small smile formed in his lips and adrenaline pumped into his veins, equal parts amused and terrified as the icy anxiety took a hold of his heart. He knew those streets like the back of his hand, having painstankly memorized them due necessity and repetition; it was easy enough to find a wall where he could lift himself up to the rooftops, disappearing completely like a ghost while he could hear the annoying clanking of metal armor and hurried steps in the streets below — the man’s own bodyguards or the city’s watch, without a doubt.

Ah, the Ciannos would be mad, the Ciannos would be **so mad** , but that was a problem for future Gareth, wasn’t it? In that world above, he was unseen and untouchable by all, so he quietly slipped away towards the setting sun, in the opposite direction from the guards’ steps and hopefully far away from his boss’ wrath.

As he jumped through the roofs, he could see the endless and fickle Verdant Deep beyond the city’s walls, with its greyish waves and green waters glimmering emerald as they reflected the last shimmers of sunlight before the world was swallowed by the crimson twilight. With his pursuers long gone, Gareth painfully slipped the golden stone into his coin purse, forcing himself to let go of it like one would attempt to separate themself from a leech and tightened its strings while his keen eyes looked for an empty enough alleyway for him to climb down back to street level; the busy marketplace near the city’s west gates was close by, and it didn’t take long for him to blend seamlessly with the crowd.

The docks of Victor’s Hollow stood just outside the walls; as the most notable port of ocidental Orsterra and its only connection to the southern continent of Gamborra that didn’t pass through the desert, they were a safe haven to the fishermen and earth-starved seafarers who depended on the capricious whims of the ocean to earn their living — and to the thieves hiding among them alike, with wits and daggers sharp and trained on the unsuspecting merchants who were passing by.

Truly, an auspicious place to hold a meeting.

Gareth walked through the gates with his head hanging low, forcing his shoulders to limp forward despite them being stiff with tension, while staying disturbingly aware of the stone at his side. He wouldn’t draw much attention to himself, even if he’d wanted to: he was all bone and no muscle, being on the shorter side for someone his age and with permanently tired eyes despite how young he was. With his thick black hair and high cheekbones, Gareth blended in amongst Victor’s Hollow’s populace enough that no one batted an eye at him when he walked down the street, even when he knew deep down that this place wasn’t his home.

Entering the docks proper, he took a sharp turn right towards the warehouses, walking past the buildings that belonged to large consortiums and trading companies without giving them a second thought. Instead, he made a beeline to a faraway old wooden building, something that probably once belonged to a small association of sailors but now stood abandoned on the edge of the forest. He gave the deserted path behind him one last look and left the bustling commotion of the port just as the sky turned scarlet.

Most if not all of the storehouse’s windows were blocked by wooden planks that stopped the sunlight from passing through, so Gareth extended his arm and a small flame danced on his palm, revealing the utter emptiness inside, letting him see the cobwebs growing from the ceiling and particles of dust whirling in the air, falling all around him like snow. The boy opened up his mouth to announce his presence, but a hand from the shadows grabbed his shoulder and a low and smooth voice interrupted him.

“Put it out,” he was ordered. “Can’t risk getting spotted now, can we?”

He swallowed his anxiety dry and quickly nodded, closing his fist and extinguishing the fire. The hand let him go and he clumsily stumbled further into the room and away from the door, reaching for his coin purse where the golden stone weighed heavy, whispering, hissing at him — **no, don’t do it. Run.**

It annoyingly enough reminded him of the whisper of the spirits, but way more **human**. It made a compelling case, taking a hold of his mind with a vice-like grasp: he could just run away with it and then…

“I brought what you asked me,” he rushed to say, taking the gemstone out and showing it off in all of its glory. Even in the darkness, a faint yellow glow emanated from it, making the man in front of him appear to be made of solid gold — he was tall and muscular, the type of man Gareth would never be, and under the stone’s light his ginger hair looked like melted copper, or maybe like incandescent hellfire. His eyes (so green, so beautiful) were wide with surprise, while his lips curled up in amazement.

The man’s shoulders started to shake as he let out a poorly muffled cackle, taking the orb into his own hands. Gareth — no, the **stone** — hesitated for a split second, strengthening his grip around it before he realized what he was doing and letting go of it way too quickly, in a way that would’ve made the stone fall to the ground if it weren’t for the other man’s holding it. The image of the gem shattering in a million pieces and becoming glittering star-like grains of golden dust quickly flashed in front of Gareth’s eyes and he grimaced, struggling to avert his gaze from the thing. He tried to take a step back, but the man put his hand on his shoulder again, dragging him closer.

“Hah, look at the cobblers on this one!” he said only slightly louder than a whisper but with a contagious smile on his voice, making the corner of Gareth’s mouth involuntarily tug upwards despite — or maybe because of — the loud beat of his heart. “Excellent! Most excellent indeed! Seems like you’re officially an accomplice now, huh?”

“I-I suppose?” Gareth whispered coyly, but couldn’t help but perch up at the kind words, the first that he had heard in a while, and giggle as well. The hand on his shoulder was kind, so unlike everything he was used to, and he found himself scooting closer, trying to bask in the man’s heat as their voice mingled in childish laughter.

“Thank you, sir,” Gareth uttered at last, and the words tasted sweet in his lips.

— And then there was no pain, no sound, no light, only the endless dark expanse and his consciousness that drifted like a leaf, unthinking and unfeeling.

_Was it really worth it?_

The inferno roared around him, flames of a sickly green that he had grown tired of seeing. They surrounded him, only ignoring him because he was their master, and he clutched the stone closer to his chest like it was a lifeline, an amulet that would protect him and keep him from harm. His legs gave out and he collapsed on his knees, feeling the broken glass and splinters of wood cut and pierce his skin as he hit the ground. Ah, he wanted to puke: his mouth was dry and he could feel all the fire inside him bubbling up in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out and drown him completely in the sea of flames.

Why… why, why, why…—— Brother—

Darius put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and he whimpered, leaning into the touch and allowing it to ground him, to subdue his shaking body. His lord plucked the gem from his hands and shook his head, leaving him to fall forward while the last whispers of its presence echoed in his mind, lasting a second before Gareth could hear his thoughts again, being no louder than a murmur but sounding deafening to his ears:

**DEATHDOOMDESTRUCTION**

And then, there was quiet. Ah, it was finally quiet.

“That’s why you can’t trust others, Gareth,” Darius explained with a somber voice, pulling him up by the collar and putting him on his feet. He looked so handsome like that, illuminated by the fire and staring at Gareth with such tenderness in his firm eyes while his lips curled so slightly down for a split second before he huffed and corrected himself, giving Gareth a soft and sad small smile. “They’ll see you for the naif you are and use you all they want.”

He sucked in a breath and opened his mouth; his first instinct was to protest, but… “You’re right, sir,” Gareth whispered, letting his eyes fall to the ground; his lord was always right.

There was a disapproving click of tongue and Darius cupped his face, tilting his chin up and looking into his eyes as he caressed his cheek. The man’s smile grew larger and Gareth’s heart fluttered as he leaned closer, frozen by anticipation——

“Gareth—”

**Wake up.**

He started feeling even before he was properly awake — the pungent smell of medicine assaulting his nostrils, the gentle warm breeze nibbling on his skin, the uncomfortable bandages touching his body, the rustling of curtains being moved by the wind — and slowly forced his eyes to open, only to see an unfamiliar wood ceiling hung above him and the sunlight coming from the nearby window burning his retina.

He lazily shut his eyes close a little too slowly, making annoying flashes of light dance in the back of his eyelids. His mind felt lethargic, with his body lagging to obey his commands: he could feel his fingers and toes twitching, arms and legs promising to move, but when he tried to push himself up, he was hit with a nausea so strong that it painted black dots in his vision.

Gareth let out an annoyed sound and sighed, falling back on the bed with an unceremonious thump.

He stared at the ceiling again, waiting for his eyes to focus and get used to the light, and looked around: the room was small but it was clean and well kept, with herbs, vials and concoctions sitting atop a nearby table alongside a mortar and several books that were left open; someone had draped their coat, a frayed and old green thing, over one of the chairs of the room, and resting on the wall by the door was a metal staff with the symbol of the Sacred Flame, alongside a pristine white cape. If he focused enough, he could hear the faint noise of voices from coming — under him? The second floor, then? And a glance through the window comproved his theory, showing him the bustling little town standing one store below the room: it was either early in the morning or late in the afternoon, with the searing red sun shining hot over the desert and it’s warmth enveloping him like a blanket, comforting and soothing — a definitive proof that he was alive.

Ah, Lord Darius wouldn’t be happy with that.

Gareth turned his eyes away from the world outside with a sigh and shifted his attention to his body, examining the soft cotton bandages that covered his arms and abdomen, dressing the places where he was burned and stabbed, going from tip of his charred fingers to his elbow and from just below his chest to his hips, where his pants started. He grimaced and gave the cloth a short pull and making sure it wasn’t tied too tight around his wrist, but whoever patched him up was seemingly competent — the major issue was that most of his clothes were gone: his trousers were still there, of course, and he could find his boots by the side of the bed, but he was stripped from both of his tunic and cape, which were nowhere to be seen.

He sucked in a deep breath, letting his fingertips ghost over the bandages and poking around his body. There was no pain, not even when Gareth pressed his shoulder, gritting his teeth in anticipation, but as far as he could tell, he was… fine: no broken bones, screaming lacerations or exposed burned skin, only the cloudy haze in his mind.

That was… weird.

Too many things didn’t fit — from the bandages in his arms to the town outside, a safe haven amidst the glittering sands of the desert. He closed his eyes again — how long had he been asleep? His Lord could very well be in a ship crossing the Middlesea right now, fully believing that Gareth was long dead or gone; he needed to go back to Northreach, back to Darius’s side — but he remembered the hot anger and the cold silence, the harsh touch and the harsher negligence, and shuddered.

Out of habit, his fingers scratched the bandages that covered his forearm, making him hiss when his nails didn’t rip open old wounds, drawing blood. His hands started to smoke with fire, itching to burn the annoying fabric to ashes, but he clenched his fists and schooled his nerves.

That was fine. It was fine.

Oh, good gods, he was tired. He just… didn’t want to think about it.

Saint Steorra, he really didn’t want to think about it — it was simply _better_ to not think about it.

Gareth groaned, defeated, and allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness once again.

Of all the rooms in the winding corridors of Lorn Chapel, the inner sanctum was Darius’ favorite, so he was naturally drawn to it as well: it reminded Gareth of the chapels in Victor’s Hollow, quiet and solemn, with columns of white marble and delicate works of art that portrayed gods and spirits alike. It was fitting for his lord, he supposed: to make the most sacred place of the temple his, disregarding the authority of the very heavens.

If he ever came by unannounced, he would more often than not find the sound of Darius’ violin bouncing off the crumbling stone walls, filling the room with a hauntingly beautiful melody. Sitting on the church benches scattered through the sanctum, Gareth closed his eyes, waiting patiently for Darius to finish his piece and enjoying the music: it brought him a sense of calm that he rarely felt anymore, the sort of thing that he missed from his childhood. Sometimes his fingers ached for his viola, to join Darius in his song, but it had been years since that old thing was broken and burned — and even so, he couldn’t help but to soft rap his fingertips against the wooden benches, remembering the feeling of strumming an instrument’s strings.

The piece came to a slow end and he turned to the dais in the center of the room, watching as Darius set aside his violin on the altar. The winged statue of Aeber that stood imposing atop the platform had lost its head a long time ago, but it stayed strong even after the sacred flame of the church had long faded, keeping watch of the secret tunnels where the populace would hide in the times of peril — after all, when they were holed up like rats, all people were favored by the Prince of Thieves. Meanwhile at its side, stood the golden Dragonstone, left on a pedestal of its own like it was an offering or an idol, something worthy of worship; he could still hear the gem’s whispers whenever he visited, and they had grown more aggressive throughout the years — practically **begging** for him to take it, own it, make it his —, but the man learned how to ignore them, gritting his teeth and digging his nails in his knee, allowing for the pain to numb him.

“Gareth,” his lord called, snapping him from his thoughts. Gareth blinked his clouded eyes and looked at him, loosening his grip. “I’ve warned you about sneaking up on me.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, sir,” he protested with a voice too soft, almost shaking, while letting his gaze fall to the ground and for the shadow of his hood to obscure his eyes. “That was… breathtaking.”

There was a short silence, but Darius broke it with a soft tsk as he climbed down the stairs from the altar to the ground level, shaking his head. “I take you’re here because you’ve something important to say.”

“Y-Yes, sir!” Gareth hurried to say, getting up from the bench and standing with his posture straight, coughing a couple times to clear his voice and squaring his shoulders while forcing his hands to rest stiff at the side of his body. “I’ve received word about the other Dragonstones; apparently one of them will be for auction in the Sunlands’ black market in a few months time.”

The news brought a quick smile to Darius face, large, bright and contagious, and Gareth allowed himself to relax a little. “Marvelous,” the man said, walking towards him; the height difference between the two forced Gareth to look up if he wanted to keep pretending to maintain eye contact. “I trust you to take care of that.”

“Of cou—”

A heavy hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, making his pulse quicken, and Gareth had to bite his tongue so as to not whimper. “Don’t fail me, Gareth. You know what’ll happen if you do.”

His eyes widened before he turned to stare at his shoes again, desperately trying to map his actions mentally and bowing in deference; he realized way too late that he shouldn’t have came — shouldn’t have disobeyed orders, but if he wasn’t at Darius’ side at all times… “Yes, Lord Darius.”

Darius stayed silent but let him go, apparently satisfied. He didn’t have the courage to face his lord, even when he stopped hovering him, so Gareth turned his head to stare the statue in the center of the room instead — it was faceless and merciful, lacking the biased gaze of a human being despite standing proudly, with large wings that seemed about to take flight; he never saw statues of Aeber as a kid, not even in the small churches of Victor’s Hollow, so the it had a special place in his heart.

It was soothing, somehow. Like the flight of vultures.

“My lord?” Gareth called in a foolish split second of pure whim, compelled by something that didn’t feel quite like himself. “May I ask you something?”

He didn’t expect Darius to answer, so when he spoke up his voice was chilling: “Be quick.”

“Do you pray to Aeber?”

The haughty and mocking laughter sounded deafening against Gareth’s ears, making him narrow his shoulders and force himself to be small. “Why should I?!” His lord asked, amusement and bewilderment clear in his voice. “He’s a god for teapots who can’t pull their own weight, Gareth!”

“A god of the rabble, then,” Gareth whispered, repeating the words he heard a long time ago. He closed his eyes, shutting away the image of the winged statue that stood in front of him, and let out a small defeated sigh. “I understand, it’s better to not waste time with such useless things. Sorry for prying, sir.”

He didn’t know if that deep sense of melancholy and bitterness belonged to him, or if it was the Dragonstone’s way of censoring him, disapproving.

There was a faint and pleasant glow that forced its way into his brain even through his closed eyelids, and the second time he woke up, it was to the sound of dissonant voices in the room. He could feel a pair of hands — large, dry, but way too soft to be Darius’ — touching him, removing bandages, adjusting his head on the pillow while taking his temperature and forcing bitter medicine into his mouth, holding his nose so he would be forced to swallow and leaving him coughing with the annoying aftertaste.

“All in all, he’s recovering steadily,” a male voice said nearby, hoarse and deep but too cheerful and with an accent too thick to belong to anyone that he knew. “So no more dreams for our guest here, and the infection seems to goin’ away too. Heh, thanks, ‘philia! Shucks, this would’ve been quite difficult without your help.”

There was a dry laugh and Gareth lazily pushed his eyelids half open, vaguely staring at their direction and trying to focus, but to no avail: all he could see were the blurry shapes of a man and a woman standing by the side of his bed, talking in hushed whispers either in the hopes of not being heard or not disturbing his sleep — and failing in both, to Gareth’s utter dismay.

“So do you think that they will be fine?” the lady asked, writhing her staff in her hands. Her voice was high and soft, and as the seconds dragged, he managed to see her more clearly: pretty and petite, probably younger than him by a couple years, and dressed all in white, with both skin and hair too light for her to be a local from the Sunlands — a pilgrim of the Church, maybe?

The man at her side shifted his weight from one leg to the other and his disposition changed, looking pensive. Like the cleric, he had golden hair and was too pale to be a native from desert, although his complexion did look like those of Southern Orsterra; he was tall, easily taller than the thief, and boasted a handsome face: strong jaw, heavy brow and a couple of scars littered through his skin in a way that only accentuated his features rather than distracting from them. “Our dear friend is already out and about, so he should be _fine_ , but…” he confirmed with a short nod, mirroring her anxiety and running a hand through his hair. “Those two are still fighting over it, ain’t they…?”

The cleric bit her lip. “Primrose is… upset, that’s for sure.”

The man let out another joyless laugh. “More like livid,” the pilgrim’s companion said, nervous. He paused for a second, seemingly unsure of what to do. “Could ya go downstairs and try to mediate between them? I really don’t want Primrose to stab my patient as soon as he wakes up, and I’m sure Therion would appreciate the help.”

— Therion.

Gareth shut his half lidded eyes and groaned internally — wasn’t that just peachy. He heard the door open and close as the woman went downstairs, and he was left alone in the room with the blonde man. A chair was dragged around to the side of the bed and soon enough, he could hear the man speaking to him:

“I can tell you’re awake, y’know?”

He groaned again, this time audibly.

The thief dropped his pretense and carefully tried to sit on the bed, only for the man to quickly bend forward and help him with it. Gareth made a small unpleasant sound, only to find himself staring at soft brown eyes and quickly look away, resulting in a small chuckle by the healer — although this time, it sounded genuine.

“Shucks, not big on looking people in the eye, are you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sorry, the Professor is the same, I should be used to it by now. Truth is, I don’t like it much either.” The man kept rambling, with his previous sunny disposition back in his words. With the corner of his eye, Gareth could see that he was painfully awkward; not only his voice was too loud, but his hands also were unquiet, with long and solid fingers always twitching and seeking to occupy themselves by fidgeting with his sleeve or drumming on his knee. “But where are my manners! I’m Alfyn, Alfyn Greengrass, a traveling apothecary. You’re Gareth, right?”

His head snapped, turning to eye the healer with suspicion. “Who told you that?”

“Ah, I got you to speak!” Alfyn said with a smile and Gareth bit the tip of his tongue, grimacing — his mind was still hazy and his body felt weak, but that was no excuse to act sloppy. “Well, that’s what Therion was calling you, at least. If you prefer other name I can—”

“No, Gareth is fine,” he resigned while interrupting the man, letting go a tired sigh and allowing himself to rest against his pillows; standing up for too long still gave him vertigo. “Where am I?”

“Oh! This is Wellspring, we’re about halfway between Sunshade and Marsalim,” the apothecary informed him chirply and with such mirth that it sounded brittle in Gareth’s ears, making his head hurt. The man reclined on his chair and put his hands behind his head, with his elbows pointing up. “You hit your head, and you’ve been out for quite a while now. Gave us quite a scare!”

He remembered it. Remembered landing with a disgustingly wet sound, and then—

_Wake up._

(But Lord Darius…)

_Don’t think about that. Wake up._

_You need to wake up, Gareth._

“I suppose I have your thief to thank for it, then,” Gareth whispered, massaging his temples. “Just kill me already, let’s be done with this farce.” 

“Now hold on an instant,” Alfyn said defensively, correcting his posture and giving Gareth a strange look — something halfway between aggravated and… sad? “I know what you’re thinking, you’re alone in a strange place surrounded by people you don’t know, but Therion just wants to help! ”

A snarl. “What do you even know about him? He’s a thief, he’ll stab you in the back.”

“I know my friend —” there was pride in Alfyn’s voice when he said that word, but also annoyedness. “— and Therion isn’t the kind that… he wouldn’t kill someone. We just want to _help!_ ”

“I highly doubt that.”

“But…!”

Gareth eyed him annoyed and with his mouth twisted downwards in disdain, but stayed silent and the apothecary’s voice died down; he thought it would rile up the other man, but the anger quickly dissipated from Alfyn’s face as he took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Nevermind that, you must be hungry, — you haven’t eaten in a while, after all. I’ll get you some food and we can talk after that, see what we can do.”

He got up without saying another word and Gareth refused to watch him leave the room, keeping his gaze fixed in his curled fists. The door opened and closed behind him, and he made a small dissatisfied noise.

There wasn’t much of a difference between stealing lives and treasure — he learned that lesson fairly early on in his “career”. All it took was a quick twist of the wrist, a well placed dagger and you could make either blood or gold rain with the same practiced ease; the man called Alfyn Greengrass was nothing but blissfully naive if he thought that his thief would never resort to violence in order to survive.

He looked through the window, to the town below: like the last time he woke up, it was late in the afternoon, although Gareth doubted it still was the same day. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, slowly turning red as the minutes passed by, and a couple vultures nested on a roof nearby, bringing a smile to the thief’s face: if they decided to finally finish him, at least his corpse would be put to good use.

Once again, the door to the room was opened with an annoying creak. Gareth took his time before turning to face the newcomer, fully expecting to see the apothecary again, but instead his breath hitched in his throat and he could swear his heart stopped beating for a solid minute at the sight of the messy silvery hair.

_Therion._

He looked like another person in the daylight, with the crimson sunlight kissing his brown skin and his soft features relaxed in a neutral face instead of twisted into a scowl. His movements, too, were different: more fluid, with a natural gentle sway of his hips and shoulders that made the bangle at his side rattle kindly, like the chime of a bell; and whenever he took a step, it was so light that it didn’t feel like he was touching the ground — it was weightless and almost unreal, like he could take flight at any moment, so different from his tense and rigid clockwork-like movements of when they fought.

Gareth realized with horror that he envied him.

There was a split second during which the two of them made eye contact, and Therion chuckled, curling his lips in a mischievous grin while Gareth averted his gaze. He pulled the chair where Alfyn was previously sitting for himself and pushed a tray of food onto the other thief’s lap. “Took you long enough to wake up, huh? Although I’m in no position to judge.”

“You look surprisingly fine for someone who fell off a cliff,” he complained instead, watching the amusement grow in Therion’s face. “What!?”

“Just… Alfyn was right, you are cranky,” the white haired man told him, stealing an apple from the wooden tray and starting to peel it with his own knife, slouching on his chair. “C’mon, eat up. You’ll be passing out again if you don’t put some food on your stomach.”

Gareth wanted to protest — he didn’t feel hungry, but rather a diffuse sense of discomfort alongside nausea and weakness, even if whatever good sense was left in him knew those were symptoms of starvation. He risked looking down, examining the meal that was offered to him with distrust: a delicate glass was filled with steaming black and sage tea, while there were grapes, plums and half a pomegranate in a small bowl; in the main plate, the bread was fluffy and still hot while the meat, seemingly lamb, already was cold, possibly being a leftover from lunch; to top it all off, a reddish jar of jam and several types of candied fruit such as fig and ginger brought some sweetness to the meal, making Gareth’s mouth water — how long have it been since he indulged himself with candy?

“I’m really not good in making bunnies,” Therion sighed at his side, putting yet another plate on the tray; true to his word, he had cut the apple and peeled it in a way to resemble little red rabbits, arranging them in two neat diagonal lines. “Should’ve asked Ophilia to do it instead.”

It was tempting. His body ushered him to accept, drink the tea and soothe his aching throat, but he knew better: even if the food looked fine or smelled good, he wouldn’t realize if the tea was laced with arsenic disguised as sugar, or if the bread had been baked with deadly noxroot. He shook his head and pushed the trail away, exasperated. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

The white haired man stared at him for an instant before dropping his smiley facade, his face twisting into an expression Gareth could not quite read — for he refused to accept it was guilt. “Gareth, listen to me. I know that we… I hurt you. And I’m so, so sorry. No attempt to explain my motives will ever be enough, but I need you to know — I _promise_ I’ll never do that again. So please…”

“‘Sorry’” he repeated slowly, listening attentively to the word as if it was the first time he heard it — because it _was_. “You could have died, you know,” Gareth said, bitterly. _You could have killed me._

“That,” Therion said with a tired smile. “Is out of question, for both of us. We’re free, Gareth. We don’t need to be prisoners of our fates.”

Gareth opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say; it sounded like Therion was speaking a foreign tongue with words that Gareth wasn’t used to listening, such as “I’m sorry” and “I promise”, and a part of him — a small, foolish and naive part of him — desperately wanted to believe him, but—

Those were just cheap words to manipulate naifs, weren’t they?

“How do I know I can trust you?” he said instead, trying for once to look someone in the eye, and it was torture: Gareth found himself staring at a single eye so green that it was like he could look into Therion’s soul, watching as his heart seemed to break. “Last time I checked, you were Lord Darius’ enemy.”

The thief flinched and Gareth didn’t miss the flash of bitterness that passed through the man’s face as his lips curled down in a grimace; there was a second during which every single muscle Therion’s body tensed and Gareth coiled like a spring, ready to pounce if he needed to. Instead, the man on the chair shook his head, breaking the momentary stillness and reaching for his belt.

“Here,” he told Gareth, dropping two daggers in their leather sheaths on the bed, and the black haired thief forgot to breath as he hurried to pull one of them out, eyes widening when he revealed the silvery metal for both of them to see. The twin blades were not much longer than his forearm and forged under commission to be as light and sharp as possible, with a comfortable grip made of wood and hide and kite-shaped double-edged blades — a present from Darius, from when he first joined his service. “I went back to the black market to grab them, figured you would need it. You’re no prisoner, Gareth.”

He couldn’t believe it; “What’s the catch?”

“Catch? There’s no catch, they’re yours.”

“You can’t be this naive,” Gareth insisted, sheathing the blade again and putting the knives at his side, away from Therion. “You know how thieves are.”

A bitter smile formed on the man’s face. “I do, don’t I? What an awful bunch of two-faced traitors, so likely to stab you in the back…” he grabbed an apple bunny and popped it in his mouth, making Gareth pout as his stomach grumbled. “I also know that we’re awful at _staying put_ , so if you decide to try your luck in the desert — if you want to go back home, or to wherever you want —, you deserve to at least have a fighting chance.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Perhaps,” Therion admitted, shrugging like it was nothing. “But I want to trust you.”

Gareth’s gaze lingered a while longer on him before falling to the food on his lap and shifting to the desert town beyond the window — how could someone in his trade be so naive and survive to see adulthood? He made an annoyed noise, twisting his face in disapproval, but his expression softened in an instant: the same couple of vultures was still perched in the nearest roof, taking flight after a short moment and opening their large wings in order to soar away.

“Ah,” the man at his side said, looking at the birds over Gareth’s shoulder; there was the faintest hint of a smile in his voice, soft and sincere, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” the thief caught himself answering, watching as the silhouette of the vultures disappeared in the distance. “Yes, they are.”

Silence settled between the two of them, but it felt comforting somehow: it was a moment of stillness, hanging in the air like a feather. Gareth could feel Therion’s eye fixed on him while he stared out the window, and he knew it would be terribly easy to finish him then and there with the same knife that the man used to peel the apple — all it would take was a well placed strike between two ribs, not at all unlike their duel a couple days prior; so he looked to the desert, and waited.

But the pain never came.

The chair made an annoying sound as it was pushed away, breaking the flimsy silence, and Therion stood up, stretching. “I’ll leave you to your meal,” he informed, reaching his hand out to pick yet another apple bunny. Gareth watched as the man walked away, willingly turning his back to the room when he could just as easily be stabbed as well — naive, foolish, idiotic — and clenched his hand around the grip of one of his knives, making no sound as he unsheathed it.

“And what am I supposed to do?” He asked suddenly with his voice shaking, making the thief stop on his tracks — he couldn’t return to Northreach, not like that. Therion stared Gareth with a puzzled expression on his face, his hand resting on the doorknob.

“Who knows,” the white haired man said curtly before turning his face away; there was no pretense of kindness in his voice, only brutal honesty. “Do whatever you want; your life is your own, after all.”

Therion exited the room with a short wave of hand, and left the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, you can find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com/  
> And on twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


	4. Interlude I - Ave, Majesty

_Feel. Think. Speak._

Such were the words that roused him from his slumber, two hundred years ago.

Eight graves for eight gods, struck without mercy by the fiend; such was the tale told time and time again, whispered quietly to the four winds. To the north, eldest Aelfric was the first to fall;and in the light of his pyre, we warm ourselves, and in the light of his pyre, we find salvation. To the east, wise Alephan and littlest Bifelgan were buried not far apart, as proof of the original sin. To the south, courageous Brand and beautiful Sealticge fell together, trying to save what little remained. And to the west, brother Dother gave himself wholly to mankind while sister Draefendi fled to her forest, finally finding peace in her old hunting grounds — and then, entombed within the cliffs, was him.

While the sons of men soon came for his brothers, devouring them like cannibals to feed their thirst for blood, his final resting place was left undisturbed, abandoned by those who reviled him, and so, only he stayed whole as the bits and pieces of his family were enshrined, worshipped, adored — forced even in death to keep their promises to the Goddess. They would ward mankind for the hereafter, forever serving as their stelwards against the Dark God and keeping the Sacred Flame burning brazen and bright, so mankind would have a tomorrow; so alone, he endured his curse, and alone, he watched over his children.

That is, until _he_ came.

_Feel. Think. Speak._

By the grace of Orsa’s most sacred child, ruler of life and death alike, he was brought back to life.

The world changed rapidly in the centuries after the fall, rising from the ashes and giving birth to something new, built from the bones of the fallen and the broken, and to those who survived, the spoils remained. Humanity built their great kingdoms in the image of the legends, but men died and their children were quick to forget, and greed blossomed in the hearts of mankind — the same greed that he once felt, the greed that brought about the fall. And now, that same greed killed his children, the poor and the unfortunate, left to die in the shadows of this world.

But curse the fiends, and their children too. And their children’s children, forever true.

_“We shall make our last stand here, and we shall stand eternal — not even the fire from the far reaches of Hell scares us. But before then, I shall journey west; for Lord Fortune is a fickle benefactor, and for the sake of this world, we can ill afford to fall now.”_

_— Journals of King Beowulf I, Volume III (translated by Professor Cyrus Albright of Atlasdam’s Royal Academy)_

The boy came at dawn.

He was a child back then, no older than twenty summers, and disguised as a pilgrim, he came to his temple, wearing a simple malva-colored cape that obscured his features — the face of a king, but from the wind, Aeber knew his name, and the very stars spelt the tale of his fate clearly, for that boy was destined to change the world.

There, with a torch in hand, stood Prince Beowulf of Ferien, he who would become the first of his line.

His steps reverberated inside the abandoned shrine, sounding keen and alien to his ears after centuries spent alone, and the boy’s eyes were quick to fall upon him as he got lost within the sanctum, shining light upon features that hadn’t seen the sun in an era; a beautiful face, with skin as dark as hardwood and hair as silvery as the moon, taller than any human being should ever be and with the broken wings of a vulture, and just its presence inspired fear — or was it fealty? — in the hearts of men, but not in that boy. One step, two steps; he climbed up the stairs that led to his throne, his final resting place, reaching forever up, reaching towards him—

He opened his eyes.

With a vice-like grip, he grabbed the princeling’s arm and dragged him closer, whispering venom to his ear. “A corpse should be left well alone,” Aeber said, standing up at his full height, towering the kid and any human in his path. In the centuries since the fall, his sins untamed him, fingernails turning into claws and his snow-colored hair cascading wildly behind his back, falling over his left eye and blinding him to the truth, and so the god drew out his sword, ready to pass judgement. “State thy purpose, or leave.”

“Ave, my Majesty,” the boy replied with a smile, the only thing Aeber could see from his features from under his hood, and he let him go, watching as the kid took back a step and bowed his head and body in a greeting. “I’ve come to pay you tribute, for I’ve heard the youngest son of Orsa is sympathetic to the plight of mankind.”

“Sympathetic to thy plight I might be, but not to thy kind,” he said with a snarl, turning back on the prince and returning to his throne above. “Leave, Blue Blood,” he ordered from over his shoulder, “and speak not of this again.”

“But Milord,” the boy — Beowulf — tried to argue back, “I know you feel it too; for the wind whispers His name and the river sings Him praises, and by the hand of Solomon of Bernstein, the Dark God Galdera is once again whole!”

And he clenched his fists in fury.

_Feel. Think. Speak._

Such were the words that roused him from his slumber.

Naught remained from his brother’s dark flame save the wisps in the Woodlands, where the hunters of the Greenwood kept it alive with their own blood and dark witchcraft, and even then they were gone, slain by Aelfric’s followers from the south; now all that was left were the cinders and the ashes, wilting and turning cold, and yet he could not deny it, for what burned within his bosom was his brother’s blessing, bringing him back to life — a corpse, reanimated and meant to pay for his sins, watching his children die in a desperate last stand.

He decided to drop the pretense, sitting on his throne and looking at the boy with endlessly tired eyes.

“And what would _you_ do about it?” Aeber asked, shaking his head. “For all I care, you’re a blue blood — me and mine were never a concert to the likes of you.”

“But I have seen the corruption of this world, and I shall correct it!'' The prince bursted out, pulling back his hood to show his face; the son of Ferien had stars on his skin, freckles creating constellations against his pale features, red hair sticking out wildly in all possible directions, and in that instant, Aeber saw the fire burning within his eyes. “I’ve walked among the people of Grant, and I have seen the greed in the hearts of men; _this cannot continue!”_ He shook his head. “I will change this world, and for this, I need your help, _my Majesty.”_

He knew that.

Knew what that boy could do, what he could accomplish, for he was blessed by They Who Govern Reason; accompanying him was Odin of the Greenwood, brother Dreisang’s one and only pupil, who gave up on his sight in order to truly see. Those who survived the fall were uncaring, unpreoccupied with the plight of humanity, and none of them was best known to despise mankind more than Dreisang, who saw their short lives unfold in an instant; as the keeper of the annals of history, the sorcerer saw eras in a moment, saw humanity’s frail kingdoms rise and fall like sand in the hourglass, and saw their sins and their pride pile up like ashes upon the ground.

Had he truly chosen to intervene?

Had he, then, the chance to repent for his sins?

“I ask you nothing but your blessings,” the boy whispered in a small voice, taking off his cape and folding it at the feet of the god, kneeling at its side. “For you, the Lord of the Just, to smile upon us. It’s not much, but this cape has been my constant travel companion since I left Ferien, and as a sign of good faith, I wish to entrust it to you.”

The god sighed.

Oh, who else he could love but them?

Beautiful, fleeting humans, whose lives were so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things; how they burned beautiful and bright! How could Aeber ever say no to them, for they were Orsa’s beloved children? How could he say no, when the Goddess Herself entrusted their wellbeing to him? How could he say no, when they were the poorest actors on this stage of liars and thieves? 

How could he ever say no, when he loved them so dearly?

“Rise, son of Ferien,” he ordered after a long silence, and he could see the sheer _relief_ on the face of the prince when he looked up. “Speak, then, and I shall listen.”

He, however, didn’t miss the devilish edge to the boy’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, you can find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com/  
> And on twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


	5. Put Asunder

He knew the fall. Knew the wind blowing through his hair, howling in his ears. He knew how long and how fast it was, and how it felt like eternity. And for the entire time, he held Gareth close, warding him, protecting him as if he was the world’s most precious treasure, and in that moment, he prayed.

He prayed just like he did once, six years ago, in the desperate hopes that a god above would listen.

And when the impact finally grinded their bones and set them apart, he could not help but scream.

“Gareth,” his voice desperately called in the dark, dragging himself the few feet that separated him from the other man just as his conscience threatened to leave him, and below him, he could feel the warm blood start pooling up. “Gareth, wake up,” he begged, shaking the other man with a weak grip as both of their bodies grew cold. “You need to wake up—”

But his words fell to deaf ears, and everything was gone. Therion just clung to Gareth, and clung, and clung, because he was at the cliff again, and he was falling.

Sleep, oh beautiful thing.

It’ll carry through this dark night,

And you’ll see through this.

_Of all the people, it had to be him._

_All he could see was green — fluttering to the wind, dominating his vision and enveloping him completely._

_Green, green, green._

_Green eyes, green mantle._

_He remembered buying Darius that cape last month — closing the latch around his neck and being rewarded a small chuckle that made his heart race —, but suddenly the green strangled him, standing in front of him in such an oppressive manner that all other colors seemed muted in comparison._

_“D-Darius?” His voice was small as he stumbled back and away from the knife while the pain blossomed in his stomach, feeling weak on his knees and falling on his backside with trembling hands. The sudden flash of a sickly red finally broke through the virescent monotony, standing so bright in contrast to that it blinded him, burning the back of his retina._

_Therion then realized that he was seeing his own blood._

_“W-Why…?”_

_“It’s simple, really,” Darius explained as he carelessly cleaned the blade in his pants, smiling as if he and Therion were still talking about the sunset. “You remember that night we humiliated the Ciannos, don’t you?”_

_“Of course I do, but…”_

_“Good!” the boy in front of him said with laughter, and something… something was different. There was no warmth in his voice, no kindness, only mockery and sadistic glee alongside his lopsided smile. “You told me they’d come for revenge, and they did. More specifically, they came to me asking for a favor: if I did what they wanted, they said they’d find a nice, high place for me in their midst.”_

_The boy’s eyes quickly went wide as understanding and fear struck his heart, trying to crawl back as fast as possible, away from Darius — but only the cliffall stood behind him, and Therion could feel his stomach sink in, for he knew what would come next._

_“That’s why you have to die. They want you dead, and so do I.”_

_…but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt._

_“But why!?” He repeated, demanded to know while trying to get up on his feet — he needed to get out of there, to make a run for it, (find Darius in the safehouse, be gone by sunrise—)_

_(But where could he go when the one cornering him was Darius himself?)_

_Darius kicked him in the chest back to his sitting position and there was a deafening dry sound when the boy crushed the thief’s hand beneath his heel, making Therion painfully aware that something **broke** ; his ribs, his fingers, his heart — and there was nothing to do but scream in pain as his bones were ground to a fine dust, lacerating his skin and making his eyes fill with tears._

_“I hate to break it to you, but this was bound to happen, mate” and he knew that. Darius always warned him about it, how people would betray you and use you — but he always thought that he was different, that he was **special**. “Truth is, just looking at you makes me Tom and Dick,” the redhead boy said, waking forwards and shaking his head while he squatted at Therion’s side, tilting his partner’s chin up to caress his cheek with a thumb. “You were blessed with such skill! I’ve never seen anyone as good as you! When we met, I knew I needed you on my side.”_

_They had that conversation many, many times before; kind words and gentle touches teetering on the edge of something else, slowly coaching Therion into giving in — but this time, Therion’s heart stopped when he saw Darius pull out his knife again, that small mischievous grin that he knew so well curling his lips upwards._

_(Had Darius’ face always been so haunting?)_

_“And you were so easily manipulated by cheap words!” The boy continued with delight, but his face twisted into a scowl not a second later. “But then you started to doubt me, to question me…” He shook his head. “Why couldn’t you stay a naif!? Everything woulda been fine if you just did what I said!”_

_Therion couldn’t say anything, but maybe there weren’t words to be said. The wind howled on his ears and for a moment, Darius was silent, gaze falling down and eyes lost in quiet contemplation. Maybe it was all a mistake, he tried to tell himself, or maybe Therion was having a nightmare. Sure enough, he would wake up, and he and Darius would—_

_The kind hand on Therion’s face turned into a fist around his throat._

_“But you just had to prove yourself better, didn’t you?” the redhead growled in his ear. “Telling me to do it **this** way or **that** way…”_

_The knife ran slowly through his skin, but it was nothing more than a cold pinprick while his heart seemed to be racing the speed of light. Therion’s left eye filled with something warm that he thought were tears — filling, pooling, spilling, and when a single red droplet fell on Darius’ pale ivory skin, the white haired thief couldn't see it._

_“I’ve had enough, Therion.”_

_And then, the dam shattered, letting tears and blood fall down the littlest thief’s face._

_“So you’re going to kill me, and that’s that,” he whispered, voice sounding rough and breathless. Once again, Darius giggled, pressing the knife against his eyeball, and the green and red and everything in-between started to fade._

_“That’s right,” the boy hissed in Therion’s ear, possessing such a frigid rage that it could rival the steel on his skin. “Without you around, I can do things my own way.”_

_That has happened before, Therion tried to tell himself. It was commonplace — the beatings, the threats, things Darius did saying it was for the best — but whenever it came down to it, all he could do was to beg._

_He would wake up, and this would turn out to be a bad dream, after all._

_“That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think… partner?”_

_He was suddenly pulled up to his feet, being forced to stand by himself when he didn’t really have the strength to do so. The redhead boy shoved him further back, forcing him near the cliffall until he was almost dangling over the edge, the white haired boy’s breath caught in his throat._

_“Shut up!” Darius screamed, and the rage flared up. “Don’t call me that! We’re not equals, you’re nothing but a stepping stool to me, Therion — you’re worth less than the scum beneath my boots!”_

_Therion thought that he knew hatred before, but this was the first time he truly felt it._

_“Partner— brother— please—”_

_It was green like a snake, green like venom, green like envy._

_The wind was loud, roaring louder at every second, but Darius’ laugh was thundering. It was mocking, sadistic, gleeful — **predatory** , making Therion fear for his life in a manner that he never quite understood before._

_“Farewell, Therion.” Darius told him, voice cold but with a bitter smile on his face. “It was nice knowing you.”_

_He fell._

_For a split second that seemed to last an eternity, he fell, being drowned in the echoes of Darius’ laughter._

_—and before he truly knew it, the howl of the wind stopped, and he was sinking._

_Panic flooded him as the water entered his lungs and he realized too late that he couldn’t breathe; he tried to trash in despair, propel himself up, but Therion couldn’t force his body to move — his bones were broken, pulverized by the force of the impact, and the thief realized with fear that he couldn’t feel his legs; he was sinking, and all he could do was to feebly reach out for the sunlight that slowly faded out._

_It was fine though, because sinking wasn’t falling; he couldn’t hear the rage of the wind or the roar of a mocking laugh, just the careless whispers of the stream running south; there was no more pain or hurt, only the icy waters enveloping him like a blanket; no more Darius, no more beatings, no more mockery._

_No more Darius._

_No more falling._

_Just sinking._

_Sinking, sinking, sinking — sinking through the dark._

_Sinking and drowning._

_— and then a bony hand belonging to someone without a face pulled him up, showing him the endless crimson sky._

He blinked away the tears only to find himself staring at his outstretched hand, white cotton bandages standing in stark contrast to his brown skin, and took a shaky breath, as if unsure of what would fill his lungs was oxygen or water. Therion tried to school his trembling body, fully aware that he was a mess, gasping for air that he didn’t need and covered in sweat, with the dry desert air feeling alien in his lungs ( _drowning, he was drowning, he was—_ ) and once again he blinked hard, _inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling_ , trying to convince himself that he could breathe, trying to convince himself that he was safe, trying to stop himself from _crying_.

His hand unceremoniously fell at his side and he groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes without making an effort to get up. It had been a dream, just a bad dream — he wasn’t in the cliff, wasn’t in the Cliftlands. It had been six years already, he should be over this — by now, it was nothing but a shadow: Darius was gone and left him behind.

And yet, before—

The thief peeked under his arm and looked towards the window, where the soft morning light entered the bedroom through the gaps of the curtains and filled it with a faint cold glow, telling him that the time for his companions’ awakening drew nearer; he wasn’t on the cliff anymore.

He wasn’t with _Darius_.

And yet, Gareth was nowhere to be found.

He wiped the tears and sweat off his face, propping himself up on his elbows only to find out that sometime while he was out Cyrus had given him his silken coat, thrown it over him like a blanket where it rested light, cool and pleasant. The man let out a low chuckle as he sat on his bed, pushing his hands through the sleeves and closing the coat over his bare chest, covering the myriad of scars that littered his skin.

Then suddenly the nausea came, rippling through his body like the tide, rising from his stomach and burning against his throat, and he soon enough could hear the ugly sound of vomit even if he couldn’t quite process it; he stood on his elbows while his empty stomach threw away nothing but acid bile, weakening him, syphoning him, sapping him of all the strength he didn’t possess, and in the end, he was left nothing but hollow inside.

That’s when he heard a voice.

“Easy, there.”

“Olberic,” Therion called for the man sitting on the chair, wiping the taste of puke away from his mouth. He was left trembling and pathetic, completely unlike the mask of pride and arrogance he wore at all times, and it _scared_ him; never before had Olberic seem him like this, and now he was left exposed like a prey animal, tensing every muscle in his body in case of danger, but instead, the older man simply sighed and shook his head.

“I’m glad you’re awake, you gave us quite a scare,” Olberic confessed, sparing Therion a tired smile. He looked away, and the smell of puke hit him violently.

“…Don’t worry about that,” he managed to say, clenching his hands into fists. “Anyway, where’s Gareth? Is he…”

“The boy is alright,” the knight assured him, leaving the chair where he sat previously to rest by Therion’s bed and patting his back as if to comfort him. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

“I…”

_They fell._

He remembered seeing Gareth — seeing _himself_ — in front of the abyss, and acting before he truly could think. As he was pulled into the darkness below, there was no thought, no word, nothing to be done, only a prayer to the gods above and his instinct to survive at any cost — and the desire to save the poor wandering soul standing right in front of him.

_Why did you jump, Gareth?_

“You two hit your heads,” he was informed, and the thief turned his head to stare at Olberic with hollow eyes as the words ringed foreign to his ears. “But we can talk about that… somewhere else, after we clean this mess. Can you walk?”

“No,” Therion answered after trying to lift his legs, sighing heavily. “Godsdammit, why this always happens…”

The taller man got up and offered him the cane resting by the door’s side; made of pale oak wood, it was a beautiful thing: light but strong, it a gift from Alfyn after Therion broke the walking stick Cyrus previously gave him to help him walk, with the apothecary and H’aanit carving it together from a tree they chopped down themselves. Primrose, Ophilia and Tressa took their turns in carving all manner of things in it — pretty flowers from the dancer (“As beautiful as you,” she said while he snorted), religious symbols from the cleric (“So they will keep you safe!”, Ophilia told him, laughing at his annoyance), and tiny, delicate apple trees from the merchant girl (“Don’t make that sour face,” she censured Therion with a finger. “I know you like them.”), while Olberic, with his strong and steady handwriting, engraved his name in big and bold letters at the back of the handle:

T H E R I O N

The cane was less than one year old, but the engraving was slowly becoming smooth from Therion running his fingers through it. Sometimes, after their nightly campfire was nothing but warm cinders and the moon didn’t shine in the sky above, he would hold it close, cradling it like it was the most precious thing in that earth; it was an alien feeling, having something like that — it a priceless gift, born of care and compassion, but nevertheless, it was his.

“You need to stop pushing yourself so hard,” Olberic censured him with an unbearable softness in his voice, which only made Therion scoff as he was helped to get up, being guided kindly by the elbow through the door and through the corridor, until they left the previous room for Olberic’s.

“I will see if either Alfyn or Ophilia can tend to you,” the knight informed, eyeing Therion as he groaned, burrowing himself in the bed as the weakness refused to leave him. “Would you want food as well?”

“No need to,” the thief slurred, fighting to keep his eyes open. “M’ fine.”

“Therion,” Olberic said in a suffering voice. “Please.”

There was no answer. The taller man simply sighed.

“Then I shall make you a cup of tea.”

The warrior exited the room and Therion was left alone with his thoughts as the man closed the door behind him, being left to ponder. If he closed his eyes, he could see Gareth clearly, eyeing him with more hatred than he ever saw — the same eyes he had, way back then. It was uncanny, like looking in a mirror; he loved Darius like Therion did, standing at his side no matter what, and it scared Therion. If Darius had asked, would he too jump? He desperately wanted to think that he wouldn’t but… now, he wasn’t really sure.

The parallel scars in his arms proved that much.

And then, there were the Dragonstones.

Ever since he first glanced upon the Sapphire Dragonstone, he started to question what was real and what was not. He was no mage, even if Cyrus chose to teach him and take him under his wing, but even a layman like him could feel the sheer power emanating from that thing — and from it, he felt _warmth_ of the kinds he could not describe, like a mother’s love, slowly coaching him to give himself to it and dream a peaceful dream. Darius said there was no reason for him to want them, but that couldn’t possibly be _right,_ not when he had a mage like Gareth at his side and the stones offered this much power — Orlick proved that much.

It could be just a convenient lie, but it didn’t fit. Not when there were so many treasures out there that would require less sacrifice, that wouldn’t need for Gareth to——

Therion sighed. Didn’t Darius ever grow tired of using people?

_(Just like he used him.)_

The door creaked softly as Olberic opened it and Therion shot open his single eye, peeking as the man set aside the various contents of the tray he was carrying on the table. “Are you mad at me?” he asked suddenly, making the knight turn to him with a curious look on his face.

“…why would I be?”

“Dunno. Gareth. The black market. Everything.”

Olberic shook his head as he grabbed some yellow medicine, offering it to Therion and sitting on the bed in front of him. “I am most certainly not mad, just… surprised, I suppose, to see someone doing so much for a person who they do not know and who tried to kill them,” he explained patiently, and the white haired man hissed when the bitter medicine went down his throat. “I know how you — and Alfyn, for that matter — feel about killing, but I was raised to be a soldier since I was fourteen, and sometimes… sometimes I still struggle to grasp that life is precious — both mine, and of the people around me.”

“I…”

Therion’s gaze fell to the floor. That was where they were both alike and completely different: they were used to the near constant presence of death, but for Therion, life — his life — was something to be preserved at all costs. Things such as beauty and love had no meaning to him; survival had, even if he didn’t particularly care if he was dead or alive. Meanwhile Olberic wanted to keep on living — he saw it in his eyes, in the way that his face crinkled when he smiled and laughed at Tressa’s dumb jokes — but wouldn’t hesitate in forfeiting his life for someone else’s sake, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But sometimes Therion would be caught in his bluff, as the scar on his shoulder from stopping Alfyn’s axe from splitting Vanessa’s head open reminded him often; those were moments of weakness, moments when he started thinking that maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad after all if it meant that someone would live on in his place.

(Foolish moments of idiotic sentimentality.)

“‘Tis easier to kill someone,” the knight told him, discarding the now empty vial on top of the dresser. “Or to let yourself die, than to try to save them and keep on living.” The warrior made a low hum with his throat that sounded awfully like a stiff laugh. “You really are a caring soul, Therion,” he said and Therion rolled his eyes, fighting back against the heat rising to his face.

“That’s not it, it’s just…” He gestured widely, trying to find the right words while Olberic stood up and served him a cup of tea; the teapot on the table was Alfyn’s, made of bronze and sturdy as hell, an old thing that he carried with him throughout his travels. “Would it be foolish if I said that I see myself in him?”

“Not at all,” Olberic replied, putting the steaming cup on his hands alongside a plate with hard bread and jam, and Therion realized just how cold he was as the heat from the drink seeped into his body, slowly and in waves. “‘Tis often that we feel an unexplainable connection to others, as if the gods have joined us together. That’s how I befriended Erhardt as a child and all of you as well, now in adulthood.”

Therion nodded and focused on the aroma of the drink, pleasant and drowning, and let the warm beverage soothe his aching throat: it was their own special blend, one born out of compromise after ceaseless fighting for their single teapot during cold nights; it had something from every single one of them, one thousand flavors that shouldn’t mix but did so seamlessly, like their little group. It was delicious, warm and comforting — somehow tasting like home, quenching his throat and warming his bones.

“Olberic?” he called, staring into the crimson tea and half-heartedly nibbling on the piece of bread that he was offered — the jam was made of figs, sweet like honey and spiced with red wine. “How did you know that you could… well, not forgive Erhardt, but start again?”

The knight turned to him, eyes wide, sad and soft, and let his gaze fall to the ground with a low sigh. “I suppose I never wanted to hate him — and maybe I never truly did. Even after I watched him strike down our liege, I desperately wanted to believe that there was a reason behind that, something that would explain his actions, and there was; his intentions weren’t righteous or noble, but both his heart and his guilt are sincere enough.”

“Were the two of you partners? Brothers?” Therion pressed on, setting his food and drink aside; he could feel as his hands began to tremble, the chain on his wrist making a low chiming noise.

“No, we were…” Olberic shook his head. “Erhardt has been my heart’s beloved since my youth. We split apart due when we reached adulthood thanks to our vows of knighthood, as our devotion should belong solely to our King, but maybe now…”

“Now you get to be with him again after all these years,” the thief said bitterly, barely containing the venom in his voice, because wasn’t he just the same — betrayed, broken, left behind to somehow fit together the pieces of what used to be his sorry life, desperately searching for an excuse, a justification for what happened, dreaming of the day where the two of them could hold hands and smile again — but unlike Olberic, that fantasy was denied to him, violently stripped away from Therion the instant he and Darius met in that godsdamned marketplace and he was forced to cross blades with Gareth. “Lucky bastard, I wish I had something like that.”

Was he crying?

He was honestly too tired to care at this point.

“Oh, Therion…” Olberic whispered, and the thief wanted to scream; wanted to flail, to thrash, to shout, because he couldn’t handle that kindness — that pity. It was too much, too many feelings swirling in his head, too many contradictions — it was Darius, and Gareth, and all the friends he made in his travels, a dozen different definitions of the word “love” that he somehow held as truth but that could never truly reconcile and exist simultaneously.

He was pulled into an embrace he didn’t have the strength — nor the will — to resist, melting in Olberic’s arms as he ruffled his hair. The thief desperately clung to the knight’s clothes, trying to muffle the sounds of his sobs, and Therion felt a pang of nostalgia for things that never happened — an older brother, a childhood he never had, good times that never existed, but that he desperately wished that did.

He didn’t, wouldn’t, let go. Olberic felt solid, more real than everything that happened in that day, a safe haven amidst a storm of emotions that Therion didn’t have the courage to venture through. He was fully aware that he looked ridiculous: shaking like a leaf, covered in snot and tears and completely and utterly exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. Therion just clung, and clung, and clung, because now more than ever he needed something to believe in, and he believed in Olberic.

“Holy Aelfric, grant us a miracle of healing.”

The glow of the Sacred Flame was blue and golden in color, and unlike actual fire, it felt cold and restrained, a sterilized sort of warmth that seeped into his bones and spread like a lightning bolt through his nerves. In slow waves, the discomfort left his body as if subliming into mist, looming above him like a shadow before disappearing into thin air and making him let out a shaky breath, cursing in low voice as he sunk back into his bed.

That took him way back, to his time in Saintsbridge — before even Darius.

Olberic was gone to clean his messes, and Ophilia put away her staff at the side of the bed, wiping away the sweat that formed on her forehead. She looked worse for wear, even without the strain of using magic: the cleric stood disheveled with her pristine white cassock stained with things he could not name, dark circles forming under her eyes, and Therion knew that she and Alfyn probably didn’t sleep that night; there was an air of exhaustion that surrounded her, her brown eyes falling to the ground and eyelashes fluttering closed for a second while she let out a small sigh, granting herself a small moment of respite before she straightened her back and turned to Therion.

And then it became a reverse staring contest of sorts.

He could feel the cleric’s eyes boring holes through the top of his skull, staring down on him with a judgmental gaze while he kept his sight firmly trained on his fingernails as if they were the most interesting thing in the world; it was a matter of pride for both of them to not be the first to give up, but—

“Therion.”

Unfortunately for him, Ophilia was a holy woman.

Therion tentatively raised his eyes, meeting hers about halfway. She had the same expression he was getting tired of seeing; the shock, the shame, the _pity_ — and it was annoying because these people should honestly be used to his bullshit by now; he was a thief, for heaven’s sake: the danger of straight up dropping dead was something that came with the profession, and something he was used to.

There was no need for them to worry; it only made things awkward and embarrassing in the end.

“Therion, please,” she repeated, and there was such a strain in her voice that he finally gave in. The thief let out a low huff and squared his shoulders, turning to properly look at her face — a face that looked so worried that it could break his heart. _Fucking Clement._

“Yeah?”

_How dare you — all seven of you — **care**?_

“I’ll let Alfyn be the one to actually scold you, he’s the doctor, after all,” the woman said — a blatant lie. Both of them knew how many times they had that same conversation, every single one being an exact rehash of the last that only ever ended with her being disappointed. “But… Therion, you hit your head! And who’s that man who Olberic brought alongside you last night?! You keep straining yourself! This can’t possibly be, you know…”

“Healthy?” Therion asked with a sneer, staring at the ceiling to avoid Ophilia’s eyes. “I’m a _thief_ , Ophilia. My type usually doesn’t have a great track record in that area, you know?”

“But _—_!!”

“If I stop, I’m dead,” he told her, closing his eyes. How many times have they repeated this, time and time again after he injured himself? Ophilia could never totally take away his pain, just like she could heal the burns in his arms but the lingering old scars would persist; her magic would stop the violent crashing waves of agony and with Alfyn’s help, most days went by relatively pain-free, but the persistent ache in the places where his body was broken never truly went away and his legs would often go numb and unresponsive with strenuous effort, and now, everything was _spinning_. “I’ve accepted I’ll be dead in a ditch by the time I’m thirty, but until then, I’ll keep going.”

He had to keep going. If anything, he had to survive out of spite — and it wasn’t only about him, not anymore. The Ravuses stole his freedom to live, and with it, his permission to die, but them — his _friends_ — pious Ophilia, curious Cyrus, sprightly Tressa, patient Olberic, graceful Primrose, charitable Alfyn, and stern H’aanit kept him going, pushing and pulling him forward.

They gave him hope, and now he owed it to them to see it until the end — even if that meant facing Darius.

The door opened, muffling whatever Ophilia tried to say, letting a couple of lousy feet in, accompanied by a surprised Ali exclaiming “Tressa!”. The girl was upon him in an instant, shoving Ophilia unceremoniously out of the way and embracing him with an iron grip, holding him so close it was difficult to believe he wouldn’t _break._ He huffed, muffling a fond laugh, and patted her head, messing up with the brown strands of her hair.

“Oh, you idiot!”

“Glad to see you’re alright, Tress.”

She looked up, eyes brimming with tears, and opened her mouth to say something, _anything,_ but the sound didn’t come out — instead, the dam broke, pathetic, ugly, sentimental, and her sobs shook her entire body, staining Therion’s shirt with snot and tears. The thief’s eyes grew wide, and in that moment, he held her too.

“Tressa…” Ali called again, gently coaxing her away from Therion, but she pushed him away as well, existing in the moment where there was only her and her friend.

“We thought… I thought you… You were covered in _blood,_ Therion!” she exclaimed — _screamed,_ and it hurt his ears. “You were barely breathing, you…!”

She broke, and it broke his heart.

Was this all his fault?

Ophilia put a comforting hand on Tressa’s shoulder, while Ali took the girl into his arms and kissed her forehead, letting her claw her way into his side and become small, curling into a ball. Therion awkwardly stood there, eyes stinging, and finally, he found the courage to hug her as well, all three of them trying to bring the merchant some measure of comfort as she cried and sobbed, letting all the pain and hurt get out of her system.

Therion envied her to a degree, to be able to cry like this, without feeling like she let her neck open wide for a fist around it, but he choked on his pride and held her, he held her until it all stopped, and all that remained from Tressa, the merchant, was an empty shell.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear, wiping away all her tears and shame. She took a deep breath and Therion let her have her space, while Ali and Ophilia stood by her side. She counted silently, one, two, three, all way up to ten before exhaling, and repeated this process several times, until she spoke. “I’m alright, this isn’t… this isn’t about me. Oh, Therion…”

The eyes all turned to him, and he could feel the shame creeping on him. How could he face them now? What could he say? So he just looked down, avoiding Ophilia’s judging gaze and Tressa’s expectant stare, and waited.

“Are… Are you alright…?” Ali shyly asked at last, breaking the silence, and Therion appreciated his coyness: he liked the boy, how he didn’t try to worm his way into Therion’s life like his seven travel companions but also didn’t posses the terrifying gaze that Erhardt had, eyes that somehow could see through the thief’s very soul with only glance; compared to their wonderful little band of misfits, Ali looked almost normal in comparison in a way only Tressa could really rival, and even her had a temper so strong that could move mountains, chasing danger like it was a bunch of butterflies. Their little party brute forced their way into reckless situations and Therion’s heart alike, never backing down or accepting a no for an answer, but Ali was patient: if the thief chose to open up, he would gladly listen, but unlike his more willful friends, he wouldn’t force it either.

Not that it would ever happen, but still— it was nice; maybe they would never be as close as Therion was to his fellow travelers, but he admired the likes of Ali and Bale anyway.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said at last, _so quit worrying about me._ He dragged a hand though his face and breathed — _breathed._ It was alright, he could trust them. “I just… is Gareth alright? He…”

His throat then closed, afraid of speaking about it. Instead, he shook his head.

“He’s… a precious someone to me,” he spoke softly, tenderly, for there was no other way to put it. “I want to protect him, no matter what it takes.”

He raised his eyes and stared at the three travelers in front of him, waiting for — something, anything, an answer, a question. He watched as Tressa eyed him worriedly, not missing how Ali bitterly clenched his fists, and it was finally Ophilia who spoke, looking more tired than ever in her life.

“You better come, then,” she said. “And see it for yourself.”

Tell me, are people free?

That’s… a weird question.

Shouldn’t you know? I thought you were the expert here.

Entertain me.

Well, I suppose it depends on what you call “free”.

Those who can go where they want and do what they want… there are very few people like that.

But I wonder if that’s really freedom.

It isn’t?

Who knows. Again, you are the expert here, I never really thought about that.

Maybe freedom is the ability to stand on your own two feet?

If you can do so, you can walk — and all the roads are yours to take.

But that can’t be right, otherwise no one would ever be free; after all, we depend on one another.

And if we aren’t free, then…

Then what’s the meaning.

Exactly.

There must be one, right?

Otherwise, why are we alive.

Maybe being human is being free.

Or rather… maybe humans are doomed to be free.

You can choose to run away, nothing is stopping you from doing so.

But even so, there are those who are free and those who aren’t.

If we’re all free, then that person is beyond salvation, and I cannot accept that.

“That person”…?

…

Coy all of sudden…

Maybe I’m asking you the wrong thing.

Maybe I should ask instead is…

Are you free?

I…

_He remembered how the moon shining outside looked so much bigger, paler and more beautiful back then, with its light entering through the cracked window and making all the dust in the abandoned old house dance like a million tiny stars, setting on the tip of Therion’s nose and causing him to sneeze, but he didn’t mind — didn’t mind the bruises and scrapes covering his skin, didn’t mind the moonlight made it easier for the guards to find him, didn’t mind that he needed to squeeze himself against the wall and tell all the prayers he knew to Aeber in the hopes that he would remain hidden._

_Didn’t mind the moon could prove to be his undoing, for it was the single most stunning thing he ever saw in his short, miserable life._

_In the end he still was found out, feebly holding the single apple he stole like it was a lifeline and looking at the guards with hollow, famished eyes. He was dragged away, so weak that he was unable to thrash and resist, and that night, he learned that the moon was a fickle mistress._

_— the rest was history._

The black market almost didn’t smell of blood anymore.

The shifting dunes had long covered all the traits of bloodshed, allowing the elements to slowly reclaim the tunnels that rightfully belonged to them, and even if Therion had avoided a fair share of patrolling guardsmen on his way there, there was not a living soul in sight. Amidst the night and the silence, the cave’s entrance and its tunnels had become something else, a black syphoning void of emptiness that sought to be filled, sucking in the desert and the moonlight towards it not unlike a hungry beast: there were no tall torches, nor treasure, nor nobles nor rogues inside the market, Bale’s men having done quick work of the place, and now all that was left were the stone walls that surrounded him, making his quiet steps reverbere inside the long winded halls that guided him towards market’s the iron door.

Maybe the caverns wanted to eat him alive and suck his bones dry, the thief amused himself in thought — _Just like a cannibal._

(They certainly did so to Gareth.)

He opened his palm and let the fire inside him murmur a pleasant melody, running to the tip of his fingers and making the air vibrate in harmony, bursting into a small flame that dissipated the darkness in front of him; like before, the insects and crawlers scrambled before the light, seeking again shelter in the shadowy corners of the cavern. “I hate those things,” Therion announced outloud, shaking his head. The fire jumped from his hand, floating peacefully a few centimeters above him and illuminating the scene in front of him: the charred stone had grown cold and the blood spit there had become rusted and brown, with abandoned weapons littering the scene with their dented blades and Gareth’s knives glistering like diamonds reflecting both his fire and the pale moonlight coming from outside the cavern — clean, unblemished, with sharp edges and marred with nothing but signs of care.

A beautiful sight. An ugly sight. A sight that he regretted. But he couldn’t change the past, couldn’t undo his sins, so now he had no choice but to walk forward, with his head held high in a display of false confidence.

And then, Therion closed his grip around his dagger’s handle.

“What are you doing here?”

The laugh bounced off the walls, and while it should have been something jovial, it sounded creepy and menacing to Therion’s ears. He coiled at the noise of the metal armor boots, twirling on his heel and finding himself face to face with Bale; as the flickering light cast deep shadows on the guardsman’s narrow features, it made the captain seem far older than he really was, as if the being who stood in front of Therion was as old and unpredictable as the desert itself — and in a way, he was.

“My, nothing misses you, does it, Master Therion?” Bale asked in an agreeable enough tone, making the thief’s body tense like a spring and his single green eye dart through the darkness, thinking, scheming — there were no escape routes, not with half of the town’s guard waiting in the sands outside, but there had to be a way out, there was always a way—

“Years of practice. Answer my question.” Therion shoot back with his dagger halfway unsheathed, buying himself time; he wondered if Olberic would be too upset if the Therion woke him up in the middle of the night and told him that sorry, his honeymoon would have to wait, he got in a knife fight with the captain of the guard because he got caught red-handed, they needed to bounce, now.

…probably yes.

“I had a hunch,” the man answered as casually as if they were talking about the weather, showing his unarmed hands and causing Therion to weaver; it could be a trap, it could all be part of Bale’s plan — but with a soft _tsk_ , he let go of his blade, letting it sink back into its sheath, and shifted his weight in order to lean on his cane, narrowing his eye to watch the guardsman closely in the faint light. Bale didn’t seem threatening, even when he still wore his mail armor; with one hand, he carried a lantern and wasn’t it an awful display of _trust_ — even if the lizardmen still roamed outside, the captain didn’t have a weapon in sight.

“A _hunch_ ,” the thief repeated then, incredulous. He shook his head, straightening his posture. “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust you.”

Once again, the captain laughed; something carefree and good-humored, as if Therion was telling a joke; “Then don’t,” he simply stated, and wasn’t that _easy_ — the same faulty logic that his friends would use time and time again, never asking for anything, never _demanding,_ just telling him that… “But I was concerned about you.”

Therion let out a low grumble, discontent. “Ah, now I understand. You weren’t worried because you left the future of your precious little town in the hands of a thief — you were worried because an ‘innocent’ was _risking his life_. And here I thought we could actually get along, without getting the mushy feeling stuff in our way,” he shook his head, and refused to look Bale in the eye; instead, he faced the eerie drops of dry blood on the ground, now brown and rusted, with their smell mostly faded after the corpses and victims had been removed.

How many people have died that day?

“Now,” the thief continued while putting the weight of his body on his cane and walking forward, shoulders squared and showing no signs of backing down. “If you don’t mind, I have _things_ to do.”

Bale didn’t bother moving an inch.

_Great._

“You’re worried about that man,” the captain stated the obvious. “Gareth, isn’t it?”

“This is none of your business,” he snapped through gritted teeth, already tired of that conversation, exhausted even — narrowing his eyes, he secretly prayed it would be over soon. “I mean, why do you even _care_?”

“I told you,” Bale said with such softness that it otherwise make Therion cry, but right now only grated on his nerves. “I’m concerned about you. I just want to understand _why_ ; you obviously don’t think highly of your profession for it to come out of a place of sympathy.”

Therion had to bite his tongue in order to try to swallow the burning, blistering bile.

“Because _nobody_ deserves this!” He didn’t intend for it to be louder than a whisper, but his voice came out as a shaky, breathless shout — and the bile came out, revolting like vomit, poisoning his tongue and searing the insides of his mouth. “The pain, the suffering… All that I have endured…!” And as he kept puking words, he was no longer sure if he was talking about the poverty, or Darius. “To be used, discarded like trash like I… like _he_ was, I can’t accept it! If there’s a chance that Gareth can go down to a different path, then maybe… _maybe I don’t have to hurt anyone!_ ”

It was the simple, ugly, selfish truth.

Then it was gone. The sickening nausea, the annoying pressure in his stomach… it was gone, and his head hung limp forward, staring at the mess that he made; he could still see the blood raining red upon the stone, all he needed was to close his eyes.

“This is stupid,” Therion said, kneeling by the blood splat and putting his cane at his side; the diamond-shaped blades were a hideous thing, but he still cradled them as if they were something precious, watching the light of his fire seem to set them ablaze. The way Gareth fought was a thing of beauty: swift, precise, wasting no movement unless it was utterly necessary, with fire burning in his otherwise cold eyes and setting Therion’s soul ablaze — and yet, there was nothing else he would like more than to never have to glance upon that sight again. “I got what I came here for, I’m going back.”

“Then by all means, allow me to accompany you,” Bale quickly offered, pulling keyring out of his belt and letting the keys ring pleasantly in front of the thief’s eyes, so incredibly tantalizing; it was an easier way out, all he needed to do was to simply _accept it_ , and yet — “The lizardmen still roam in the desert at night, after all.”

— and yet he couldn’t find the strength to refuse it.

“Then Aeber take our souls, then,” Therion whispered bitterly, closing his hands around the dagger, and oh, how he hated that they felt perfectly comfortable. “And may he deliver us safe and sound.”

They walked back to Wellspring in silence, leaving behind only footprints and the trail of Therion’s cane to be quickly erased by the desert’s wind, and yet, the thief’s mind was unquiet, wandering around like a vagabond; _trust_. He didn’t trust Gareth, nor he trusted his chances with this gamble, but he desperately _wanted_ to: to be a thief meant to be a slave of fortune, and he and Gareth apparently had the shittiest luck possible. It was eerie, to see himself in another person like this, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it; in fact, it was scary because so much of it he _hated_ : hated that devotion for those unworthy of it, hated that obsession over every minute detail, hated that greed despite their survival depending on it, hated that indolence and lack of care for himself, hated that rage and violence that roared as strong as the fire within, hated that envy of others that only took, took, took, and most of all, hated that pride that wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t break, wouldn’t _yield_ even if that meant their downfall.

He hated himself, but despite that, he didn’t hate Gareth.

So he would take the leap and trust for once in his life — if not in Gareth, in the gods above.

He went way farther for lesser gold once before, after all.

The thief looked up, to the sun rising through the sky and painting the early morning red, gold and pink with its soft warmth, and despite being an outpost of merchants, Wellspring was still asleep amidst the sands, blissfully unaware of the world outside it’s limits. It was a good life, Therion thought; located halfway between the ports of Sunshade and the capital of Marsalim, the town enjoyed a privileged position within Triberia, being able to grow thanks to commerce and its oasis, with its waters glistering even more than gold in the desert. Maybe if things were different, he could have made his life there, serving under Bale or maybe being hired as a sellsword by the merchant caravans, and, if he made enough money, he would save to buy a small study in Marsalim and fill it books and knickknacks, finally taking this chance to attend an academy at the capital and work towards something meaningful.

That is, if they would have him.

“This is where we part ways,” he told Bale, refusing to look at him in the eye. Maybe he could stay, Therion pondered to himself; maybe Bale would accept him like he accepted Erhardt. Maybe he didn’t have to return to the Ravuses. Maybe he wouldn’t have to leave that quiet merchant town.

Maybe there was a chance Gareth could be saved, after all.

And yet, all that was a meaningless fantasy; that wasn’t his life, it could never be — the chain on his wrist, the scars on his body, even the daggers in his belt… they were all proof that he didn’t belong, would, _could_ never belong — all belonging to a faraway dream, things he couldn’t even hope for, and even thinking of that his stomach churn and turn.

“Therion,” Bale called, and it was _annoying_ , so annoying; he sounded like a father, so patient and understanding, not at all unlike Olberic — but those knight types were always the same, at the end of the day. “Playing the knight is all well and good, but you can’t save someone who doesn’t want your help; at some point, people need to be able to make their own decisions and choose what’s better for themselves.”

But the most annoying thing of all was being grouped with them.

“So what?!” he snapped, lashing out with venom; he knew that, of course he knew that, but he couldn’t just— “You can’t possibly be telling me to give u—“

“But I don’t think that either Master Gareth or you are beyond hope.”

He snapped his neck, turning his face quickly to stare at Bale with his cheeks burning while he blinked his eyes, flabbergasted. “I’m not—” he was at a loss of words. “Some kind of _frail lordling_ who needs to be saved!”

And once again Bale laughed, so young, so free, so unlike his age. He shook his head, pressing Therion’s shoulder gently, like old friends would do when meeting again after a long time. “And to think of all people Sir Olberic could call a student, you would be the one…” he shook his head, barely containing a giggle like he had just told a joke. “Oh, Master Therion… people care for you more than you imagine.”

“You’re terrible, did you know that?” Therion replied, annoyed. “You’re killing me, Captain. You’re killing your thief! You and these goddamn weirdos, trusting blindly… and here I thought that maybe I could start to like you!”

A sigh, followed by more laughter. “I suppose this is where we part ways,” the thief finally said, massaging the back of his neck; he closed his eyes, thinking of Gareth’s countless scars, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to throw the knives away, allow the desert to claim them until they rusted and turn to dust, but he couldn’t do this. “You gave me much to think about, and for this, I’m grateful.”

Bale smiled at him, and for a second, Therion wondered if his father was ever like that, for it looked so nostalgic. “You need only to ask, Master Therion.”

The rhythmic knock on the door spelt a melody well-known by both of them, and after the months traveling together, this had become a habit of the two of them. She was at the door quickly enough, unlocking it for him, and when she glanced upon the thief, a small smile graced her face.

“Therion,” Ophilia said, stepping aside so he could enter her room. “It’s good to see you out and about.”

He rolled his eyes more for theatrics than anything else, shifting his weight from his legs to his cane. “For the last time, I’m _fine,_ I…” he sighed, annoyedly. “I’ve come to pray,” the man admitted, looking down at his shoes. “Do you mind if I join you today?”

Ophilia’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Oh, not at all!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “Please, make yourself comfortable, I shall grab a candle.”

He nodded and crossed the threshold, being hit by the faint smell of incense and perfume inside, and it reminded him of his childhood in the cathedral of Saintsbridge, learning the homilies and hymns as it was fit to all the children raised by the Church. In the end, he and Ophilia weren’t so different after all: just spoiled little kids who went to orthodox school, losing their fathers and their homes to the war between Edras and Rivain. But still, she could never understand him, just as he could never understand her — as similar as their births and childhoods were, they now belonged to two different worlds entirely, and walked different walks of life; he could never have her empathy.

“It has been a while since you joined me in prayer, hasn’t it?” she asked, returning with her box of candles and distracting him from his thoughts. “I think the last time was in Everhold…”

“I’m sorry, I… had my head full,” he whispered in reply as she lined up another candle in her makeshift altar containing reliquaries with the symbols of the gods, carefully arranged like a church would present the pantheon; Aelfric in the center, with Sealticge at the far left and Brand on the far right, with They Who Govern Reason displayed in a small circle surrounding Aelfric for a total of twelve little effigies while the candles totaled ten — one for each traveler and two for Ophilia’s family, he deduced. “Ah, light one for Gareth too,” Therion caught himself saying. “…please.”

Ophilia stared at him for a long time before nodding and adding yet another candle to her shrine — an unlucky number, but not nearly as unlucky as thirteen — and he kneeled alongside her in front of the reliquaries, joining their hands in prayer. They hummed, trying to find a tune, and finally, they rose their voices in a choir:

_Twelve prayers to twelve gods:_

_To Flamebringer Aelfric, Most Exalted of them all, who descended amidst the snow;_

_To Scholarking Alephan, king of kings, who ruled beyond the hills;_

_To Fortunewinds Bifelgan, forever intrepid, who sailed across the Deep;_

_To Thunderblade Brand, bringer of storms, who shook the very mountains;_

_To Lady Sealticge, oh Gracious one, the dancer in the desert;_

_To Charitable Dohter, salubrious healer, who brings us the bounty of harvest and warmth of summer;_

_To the littlest Prince of Thieves, who hides between the cliffs;_

_To the Huntress Draefendi, the fierce forest protector, judge of rage unbending;_

_And to the Governors of Reason Dreisang, Balogar, Winnehild and Steorra, watching us from heaven above;_

_Let us sing, let us praise, let us bask in their Flame’s warmth;_

_And to the Firstborn of Orsa, our silence and sorrow,_

_Our silence and sorrow,_

_For He was laid to rest beyond the sea_

_So we could have a tomorrow._

The candlelight flickered — once, twice, three times — as its weak reddish flame turned a blue so bright that the entire room was swallowed by its warmth, soothing their hearts and their ailed minds with its light. Even if Therion no longer could hear the Flame talking to him as he did as a child, it still brought him comfort knowing that someone watched over him, that he wasn’t alone. It was the same as the Dragonstones, the gentle warmth, the kindness, the _love,_ except it didn’t pursue him into his dreams, except it didn’t—

“Therion, Ophilia.”

“H’aanit,” Therion called back, quickly getting on his feet, but once he realized that the woman was in full hunting gear, he stumbled. “Where are you going?”

“The guardsmen hath told me of a large beast sighted southwest of the town,” the huntress explained patiently, resting on her shoulder against Ophilia’s room’s threshold and letting Linde rub against her legs. “I hadst heard similar rumors weeks ago, upon our arrival to Wellspring, but hadst delayed action on account of the black market and Olberic’s… issues. However, with this matter settled, I cannot neglect it anymore; there is always a chance it could be my prey.”

The last time they heard about the Redeye, it was in Sunshade; the city found itself overflowing with travelers, each and every one desperate to flee the south because of the beast. The thief swallowed dry, and opened up his mouth. “Do you really need to go so soon?” he asked H’aanit.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then…” _Let me go with you,_ he wanted to say, but he could not— not when he still had a role he needed to play. But the huntress offered him a kind smile, and gestured for him to come closer.

“Therion… followen me,” she ordered and he obliged, bidding farewell to Ophilia with a quick head nod, and he followed H’aanit through the winding corridors of the inn, passing through the tavern downstairs and stepping into the outdoors. “There was no need for coin in S’warkii. I only came to understand the greed in the heart of men after leaving the Whisperwood, and I came to understand thee. I do not approve of thy career, nor do I think I shall ever approve of it, but… I understand now that thou huntest to survive, just as I do. It will be a shame to partake in this hunt without thee, but someday I hope we might hunt as confederates.”

Taken aback, for a second, Therion imagined H’aanit’s world — a world without greed, and with no need for coin; he imagined himself as her apprentice, calling her “Master” with the same respect and deference that she had for Z’aanta, and maybe having something akin to a family, and an animal companion like Linde, something small and cunning like a fox, as it would befit him. It was another world that could never be his, but he stepped outside the town with H’aanit and saw the golden desert stretching endlessly around them, and in that moment, he smiled.

“I would like that,” he said at last. It might take years, or even decades, but one day, he would find a place to belong, even if he could never share the thoughts of someone’s heart.

“I’m glad,” she told him, taking a bow from her back and thrusting it into his hands, and from the little he knew about archery, it was a wonderful bow; short and recurve, it was carved from a type of wood whose name Therion didn’t know, but he could see all the expert craftsmanship that went into it — it was clear H’aanit was a master on what she did. Absent minded, he pulled the string, and while it took all of his strength, he knew he was the one to blame. “I hath been working on this. Wouldst thou accepten it as a parting gift?”

Therion blinked, letting go of the bow’s string and being hit with it with a sonore _ow!_ “I can’t…”

“I knowe thou stolest my favorite hunting knife, and now thou refusest a gift?”

“I-I…” the thief shook his head in embarrassment, wondering when necessarily she had noticed her knife missing. Nevertheless, he took the bow, holding it close like it was a treasure, “Thank you, H’aanit. Safe hunt.”

“When this is all over, let us hunt together, my friend” she told him with a smile, and with that, she departed into the unknown.

There was nowhere for him to go, so his feet guided him through the corridors like a phantom force, guiding him to Gareth’s side, for there was nothing else that he could do.

 _“You shouldn’t look,”_ Alfyn had warned him yesterday, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and gently trying to coach him away. _“It’s for your own good.”_ — but Therion had to see it, let it burn it within his retina, for that was his sin; empty things longed to be filled, and like the cave, the place at Darius’ side was a trap with no escape, entrancing and devouring all, with no regard for others’ lives. And so he watched over him, memorizing his parallel scars that were so similar to his, mapping every burn and bruise that was his fault, so one day he could atone, so one day he could apologize.

Nevertheless, Gareth wouldn’t wake up, his chest rising and falling slowly like the comings and goings of the tide.

( _A beautiful doll, worthy of pity._ )

He sighed, pushing the hair away from the thief’s face and tucking it behind an ear. _He was pretty_ , Therion thought; Gareth had the sort of face that could be considered both handsome and beautiful, with delicate and rough features alike — high cheekbones and a pointy chin, with chin-length hair and long black eyelashes — but it didn’t erase how uncannily similar to Cordelia he was, not with his blue eyes and slightly wavy hair, and he wondered if she would look anything like Gareth once she became an adult.

He shook his head. They looked similar, but they were not — could not — be the same, not when Gareth looked at him with such sad eyes as wide as the moon. Rather, Therion stared at a mirror, at someone as chained as him, as lost as him; be it Cordelia or Darius, the two thieves were forced to serve a master, incapable of making their own choices. “Is this why you jumped, Gareth?” he asked, sitting by the side of the bed and watching his eyes move behind closed eyelids. “So you could have a choice, at least in the bitter end?”

There was no answer, but Therion smiled nevertheless. “We don’t need to fight, you and I. We could run away, just the two of us… We could be free, we could be…”

Friends, they could be friends, he thought but interrupted himself, for it was a lie. Maybe Gareth could be free someday, but Therion was still bound by the bangle in his arm, and while he had it, he would never know peace — and there were also the dragonstones, whispering at him in his dreams, possessing such _warmth_ that he had no choice but to pursue them, and the thought that Darius coveted them scared him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered instead. “Sleep, Gareth; I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” And so he sang, a song that he heard in his childhood, a long time ago, by someone whose face he had long forgotten:

Sleep, oh beautiful thing.

It’ll carry through this dark night,

And you’ll see through this.

— Therion had seen that same scene several times before, in a different tavern each time.

As H’aanit ran a hand through her hair, her gaze shifted from the letter to the map and she bit her lip, her anxiety reflected in Linde’s flickering tail and raised ears as the leopard half hid beneath the table. At her side, Tressa suggested something only for Olberic to put his hand on her shoulder and shake his head with a small apologetic smile, pointing out the flaws in her thinking with such patience that only a saint could have; then the girl’s mouth would open in a small “o” and her eyes fell to the map while she nodded, asking Primrose what she thought. The dancer simply crossed her arms in front of her chest, tapping her foot as she tried to come up with something; the king’s summons and the Redeye in Marsalim, Werner in Riverford, the rumors of a plague starting in the Cliftlands — they all had places to go, their little group being pulled apart all in different directions, but then Alfyn would make some ridiculous pun and Therion would snort as Ophilia tried to hide her giggles behind her hands and the entire discussion would end up dissolving into friendly bickering as they tried to decide where to go next. Cyrus eventually spoke up, tracing a route on the map with his finger and suggesting the best course of action, and the seven of them would nod and agree with the professor, putting away the maps so they could order the next round of drinks, Tressa and Primrose’s courtesy.

Today was no different, except it was.

“What a merry bunch,” Ali said, sitting by Therion’s side and handing him a cup of tea that the thief accepted with a small head nod before taking it to his lips; despite being warm, the drink was surprisingly refreshing, with the taste of pomegranate, lemon and honey blending into one. He let go of a low hum and rolled his eyes.

“You tell me. I’ve never seen Olberic in such high spirits,” he commented with snark, sitting on top of one of the tables. “Meeting up with Erhardt really did wonders to his mood. I should apologize anytime.”

“Why?”

“I, ah…” Therion could feel himself blush, heat rising to his face. “May or not have called him an utter fool for chasing Erhardt.”

Ali giggled at his response and Therion downed his tea in one go in an attempt to drown his embarrassment, no amount of explaining sufficing to justify himself. It was a normal meal, he thought, full of laughter and jokes — he had seen that same scene several times before, in a different tavern each time, and today was no different, except it was.

Today, Therion was staying behind.

When he had told them about that, their eyes had grown wide, staring at him with the utmost concern. But truth was, there wasn’t much he could do; he could not return to the Ravuses without the dragonstone, nor could he abandon Gareth as he stood. So even if it broke his heart, his decision was easy — and so he enjoyed his meal, knowing full well that might be the last he spent in their company.

“We haven’t traveled together for long,” Ali told him, sitting at his side. “But I’ll miss your company, Therion.”

“You just want someone to tag along while you drive Tressa crazy,” he joked with a sigh, staring as their small group went their separate ways in the tavern: Ophilia and Alfyn excused themselves to go upstairs, while Olberic and Erhardt shared a meal together; H’aanit distracted Cyrus and Tressa with the tales of her latest hunt, and Primrose… Primrose stared at him with eyes like daggers.

Therion made Olberic and Erhardt swear an oath of secrecy, and what happened in the caverns south of the town would die with the three of them. Meanwhile, the details he gave others were vague at best, but not something unusual for him, and most of the travelers seemed fine with it, albeit a little nervous; who was that man?, they asked, and why were you hurt so badly?, questions for which Therion didn’t quite have an answer to.

That is, except Primrose.

Primrose knew him the best, and also understood him the best. Even if they started out in different walks of life, their fate was ultimately the same, guiding them to the shadows of this world. Not much was similar between a noble lady and a thief, an assassin and a rogue, but she understood. She was wary, guarded, downright distrustful of Gareth, and he could not blame her, not after everything that she suffered. So for the time being, he tried to placate her humors, beg for her to let it go, but she saw the burns in his arms and the bruises in his body, and she knew the truth.

But now wasn’t the time to think about such things.

“Are you truly going back to Marsalim, even with the Redeye out and about?” he asked Ali instead, turning his eyes away from Primrose’s judgmental glance. Instead, he studied Ali’s face; he was a handsome youth, even if Tressa didn’t realize it.

“I need to see if my dad is alright,” Ali admitted, scratching the back of his neck. His eyes fell to the ground, and Therion perched up in interest. “Plus… I’ve been meaning to introduce Tressa to my dad. My family used to trade the goods of Gamborra within the borders of Triberia, but with her accepting Captain Leon’s offer and becoming his apprentice, we could finally expand to across the Middlesea, and could even reach East! It’s an extremely lucrative business venture and—"

He was enamored, there was no way around it.

Therion giggled, listening to the boy describe his plans with Tressa with a dreamer’s air surrounding him, his brown eyes glittering like stars as he laid down his plans for the future. Oh, how Therion envied him; envied that carefreeness, that freedom to love. Never have Therion truly been in love in his life, so watching the boy and Tressa walk around the streets of Grandport hand in hand or seeing Olberic and Erhardt share their meals almost felt alien to him, something he could never truly have. For the longest time he thought he didn’t mind, but still, it was so _lonely,_ to see others find the one person who could offer them some understanding. Instead, Therion was alone.

“You must really love her,” he joked out loud, and Ali choked on his tea. Ah, vengeance tasted sweet.

He would miss this so dearly, because where romance escaped him, he had his friends. The likes of Primrose, Alfyn and Tressa would keep traveling, but only the gods knew what Olberic and H’aanit would do after Riverford and her hunt was completed, and Ophilia and Cyrus alike were to return home after the end of their journey. It broke his heart to see them part, but Therion knew this couldn’t last forever; instead, he had to find his own path, but watching Primrose and Ophilia crack some jokes or Tressa annoyedly call Ali to join her by the bards filled his heart with warmth, and just for one night, he could delay the inevitable.

That is, until Alfyn appeared on top of the stairs.

“Gareth is awake,” he announced, and suddenly silence dawned upon the travelers.

“Therion—”

“Let me go, Primrose!” he said, trying desperately to worm himself out of the woman’s iron grip. “I need to, I need to—!”

He needed to what, exactly?

 _To see that he’s alright_ was an obvious answer, but not the one he was searching for. Therion struggled, trying to get rid of Primrose, but it was in vain, for she wouldn’t let him go; instead, she looked at him with such tender, such worried eyes that it would normally break his heart were it for not his single-minded pursuit, and so, he resisted, glancing away so his heart wouldn’t be moved by the desperation in the eyes of his companion.

“Do you think I don’t know?!” she asked in despair. “You’ve been lying to us this entire time!” she slammed him against the wall, forcing him to look at her, and suddenly it hit him that she was about to cry. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

“Primrose—”

What could he say? What was _left_ to say? Gareth did no worse than he did; he was no sinner. If anything, in that ballet of liars and thieves, Gareth was its biggest victim.

“Why did you bring him back here?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? — And truth be told, Therion didn’t know the answer either. Maybe it was Gareth’s eyes, how they were the same eyes he had back then, but it couldn’t be right, not when they were also like the eyes of the person he hated the most in the world. Maybe it was how he fought, how he bled, how he dreamt, trying his hardest to survive when the cards they were dealt were stacked against them. But maybe the truth was easier, simpler, maybe it was just—

“Because of you, Primrose!” Therion finally broke and told her, his voice raw with emotion. “Even after Simeon, even after everything, you’re still a good person! After we met Erhardt, I… I thought maybe people could _change._ It’s stupid, and naïve, but…”

She let go of his wrist, and his hand landed limp at the side of his body.

“It’s unfair,” she said, no louder than a whisper, and her voice was like a rose with thorns forcing its way down Therion’s throat, choking him, hurting him. “When did you become such a better person than me?”

“Primrose…” he whispered, raising his hand to touch her face, and she gently pushed it away, shaking her head.

“No, it’s alright,” the woman told him, forcing herself to smile, and it was so _sad,_ knowing it was all his fault. “Go then, you big damn hero. You better be right about him, or I’ll take the matters into my own hands.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he reassured her, giving her hand a quick squeeze, “This, I swear,” and as he climbed upstairs, both he and his friend still reached for each other, even when they were put asunder.

The days slowly crawled by, purple nights turning into golden days, and the travelers departed at dawn, heading to the unsure south. Meanwhile, Gareth stayed silent for the most part; he kept to himself, like a flame that had sizzled, and it worried Therion how he seemed to have wilted: long gone was the confidence and grace that he carried himself, instead replaced by something more somber, more quiet, although he still held his chin high and spoke with authority, and every day, Therion cared for him.

“Where’s your apothecary?” Gareth asked in the third morning after Alfyn was gone, and the sudden conversation surprised Therion. He stopped arranging flowers at his bedside, ignoring the purple blooms on the man’s nightstand, and turned to him.

“They’re gone,” he explained with a small smile, and he couldn’t miss how the sunlight reflected in the thief’s blue eyes, turning them into something completely different. “They departed by sunrise.”

“I see,” Gareth whispered with a bitter smile. “So you were left behind, just like me.”

Therion instinctively clenched his fists at the side of his body, but soon let them become limp, and Gareth looked away, ignoring the flowers to stare at the endless expanse of gold, blue and white through the window, marred only by black dots of birds flying high up above.

“Vultures,” Therion recognized them quickly, used to seeing them fly unbound in the skies of the Cliftlands, dominating all of Edras; he heard tales about them from long ago, before word faded into legend, about how they were once majestic birds, but became burned by the fire. “Do you like them?” he decided to ask in a moment of sheer impulse.

“It’s not that I like them,” Gareth explained without turning his head back. “But they aren’t a common visage in the north.”

“So you’re from the Frostlands?” he asked, and it was so _tantalizing:_ he wanted to know more about Gareth, to know about him, but every time he tried, he was met with nothing but unbound silence.

But not today, apparently.

“... a small village in the Woodlands, actually,” the man whispered. “But you wouldn’t find it on a map.”

“I was born around the Riverlands,” Therion told Gareth, sitting by his side on the bed and watching the birds fly up high. “It’s funny, we weren’t as far apart as I thought.”

“Mmm,” Gareth whispered, deep in thought, and let his eyes wander around the room, stopping momentarily on Therion’s face and then moving to his nightstand and the flowers, and his eyes grew wide. “Those flowers — what are they called?”

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Therion said, plucking one from its vase and offering it to Gareth, who took it and held it like a treasure. “They’re wolf roses, or just wolf apple’s flowers. They’re fairly common in Edras and Rivein, and even across the river in Triberia. They’re frequently used as charms against thiev—”

His body hit the floor with a painful dry noise that rattled his very bones, and honestly, he should’ve seen this coming; Gareth held him down and tilted his chin up and oh, his eyes were blue. Blue, beautiful, and striking, just as vast as the sky where the vultures flew above — the sort of eyes that Therion could very easily lose himself into — and soon enough, there was a knife against his throat.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Gareth said, holding the thief’s hands together and whispering against his ear while pressing the blade slightly more against Therion’s skin. “But let us drop the facade, shall we, my friend?”

“Gareth,” the thief whispered breathlessly. He knew something would happen sooner or later, he took that chance when he gave Gareth his knives back with no strings attached, but it was still hard to control his breathing and soothe his beating heart. “Don’t do this, you don’t want a reason for the guards to throw you in the goal.”

The truth was, deep down, Therion didn’t want to die.

“You didn’t tell them I killed that fence,” Gareth realized with wide eyes, and for a moment, the grip on the knife on his throat vacillated. “Why?”

“The gods tell us to watch over our own,” he replied bitterly, the words of ancient hymns tasting sour in his tongue. “This includes you.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious sort.”

“Kill me if you want,” Therion suggested in a moment of desperation, eyes darting around looking for— what, exactly? He took the gamble, and now it was his duty to see it through, no matter the cost. “You told me yourself, he threw you away. Would this really change anything?”

“Don’t insult Lord Darius like th—”

“He was my _brother!”_ the small thief screamed, venom dripping from his mouth as he clenched his fists powerlessly at his side, but he didn’t thrash or struggle. “We’re the same, you and I. Used and then thrown away. Can’t you see that!?”

“I _asked_ for this!”

“No, no you didn’t!” he exclaimed, closing his eyes. “In your perfect world, Darius came to swoop off your feet and carry you away from the big mean thief like a pretty princess or something. You’re _afraid_ , Gareth.”

“Why don’t you fight back, then?!” the man asked, and Therion could feel blood — _his blood_ — start dripping on the floor as a small cut formed under his chin.

“Because I _promised you!”_ he hissed, trying to ignore all the pain and despair that threatened to overtake him, whispering sweet promises of safety if he just let the fire take over and burn this entire place to the ground. “I said I would never hurt you again!”

He could end this there and then, all he needed was to say the word — but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, refused to let the wildfire within win, and instead, he prayed, holding his breath.

_Is this selfish?_

The knife landed by the side of his ear with an almost melodic sound, and Gareth grabbed him by the scarf, turning him around so they could see face to face; “This is naïve, idealistic nonsense,” he condemned, staring down on Therion with eyes as cold as when they first met.

But nevertheless, he offered his hand.

“Why?”

It surprised Therion it eluded him so far, because it was something so small, foolish and _selfish_ , something so _simple_ and so _desperate_ but yet so alien to him that he had no choice but to be completely thrown off balance by it.

“Because you have my empathy.”


End file.
